


A Bit Like Love

by inadaze22



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American Merlin, Arthur aint trying to put a ring on it, Arthur is a doctor, Arthur is done with all their shit, Arthur is ridiculous, Awesome Morgana (Merlin), Background Gwen/Lance, Background Het, Fate & Destiny, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Gaius lives in Maine, Gwen thinks she's a matchmaker, M/M, Merlin Has Magic (Merlin), Merlin is weird, Morgana is weirder, POV Arthur, Schoolteacher Merlin, Slash, Slow Romance, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Uther has put too many rings on it, Uther is a politician, Wedding, Will is alive, awkward first kiss, background Morgana/Leon - Freeform, but it gets resolved, everyone knows except Arthur, some general ridiculousness, useless superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 20:50:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20395966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inadaze22/pseuds/inadaze22
Summary: True love and soul mates are myths. Arthur's always believed that. Fate, however, has a different opinion on the matter, and Morgana happens to agree. Unfortunately, she's always right about these things.





	1. God Save The Queen!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know, Lance said the same thing when I told him.”
> 
> “You told him?”
> 
> “Of course, I did. I tell everyone…except Uther, of course, he’d probably institutionalise me.”
> 
> “Might do you some good.”

_One_

In Arthur’s opinion, his cousin, Morgana, had the worst superpower—_of all time_.  
  
She had _dreams_. Vivid, foretelling dreams. Not about information that could determine the fate of human race or even about tomorrow’s winning lottery numbers. Morgana had prophetic dreams…  
  
About weddings. Seriously. _Weddings._   
  
She’d dreamt about all _six_ of his father’s weddings months—even _years_—before Father had met the brides. She also had knew how many times someone would marry, which was, again, _completely useless._ However, when she held up eight fingers at his father’s last wedding, he knew that this stepmother wasn’t going to last as long as she’d promised in her vows. She’d dreamt of her older sister’s elopement two months before Morgause and her fiancé skipped town just hours before the actual wedding. They returned to the church – late, of course. Morgana had been the only person—outside of Arthur, who didn’t care for Morgause anyway—who had remained calm the entire time.   
  
The most recent wedding she’d dreamt of was Lance’s to Gwen, and that happened years before they’d met. And when Lance proposed, Arthur thought it was all over. No one else was getting married; _Arthur_ sure as hell wasn’t getting married, so it _had_ to be over. Right? Right.  
  
Wrong.  
  
Two weeks before Gwen and Lance’s wedding, while dining at a Thai restaurant in Soho, Morgana said to him, “Last night, I dreamed about your wedding.” When he didn’t even look up from his Blackberry—he was texting _‘Morgana’s going nutters again. SOS!’_ to Lance—she kicked him under the table. With the heel. Of her stiletto pump. The especially pointy one. Arthur had to take a few deep, calming breaths to stop from hyperventilating, but he glared daggers at her and hoped it got his message of pure, white-hot hatred across. Evidently, it didn’t, because Morgana merely smiled cryptically and asked, “Do you want to know what I saw?”  
  
“Not particularly,” he hissed.  
  
After stabbing a piece of broccoli on her plate, she lifted it to her lips and asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to know? It’s quite interesting.”  
  
“Are you going to leave me alone if I say no?” It was worth a shot.  
  
She tsked. “I thought you knew me better than that.”  
  
Which meant no.  
  
Arthur heaved a sigh. “Fine. Whatever.”   
  
“Well.” Morgana set her fork on her plate and leaned closer as if she were telling him a great secret. “You’ll only marry once.”   
  
That bit of news was worthy of the eyebrow lift it received, seeing as to how he promised himself that nothing but the deepest love would ever induce him into matrimony. It was nice to know that he had managed to stick to something, after all. His thoughts on marriage were dramatic of the _Pride and Prejudice_ variety, but after witnessing six of his fathers marriages fail for various reasons (and knowing the seventh was going to go down the toilet soon enough), he felt he was justified.   
  
“I was surprised, too,” Morgana confessed. “Want to know more?”  
  
“Not really, but you’re going to tell me.”  
  
Morgana smiled. “Uther and Ruby will be in attendance, so I know its still years away, so don’t…be yourself about it.” Unfortunately, he knew exactly what she meant by that. It made him frown. “I won’t tell you who you’re marrying, but I will tell you that you’re not marrying that leech you’re dating, Sophia.”   
  
“Leave her alone,” Arthur defended in neutral tones. “She’s not that bad.”  
  
She shot a _‘you’ve clearly been hypnotised by her breasts’_ look. “If by _‘not that bad’_ you mean _‘so ridiculous that she’s almost funny’_, then sure, I suppose she has that going for her.”   
  
He shot his cousin a look. “At least she’s better than Vivian.”  
  
“A blow-up doll is better Vivian.” Morgana lazily swatted the air. “Not a good argument, Arthur.”   
  
“Not the point. Sophia is a lot of things, but at least she isn’t actively trying to make my life hell. She’s not being sneaky or underhanded, and she’s not even trying to trick me into banging her up so I’ll marry her. She’s not poking holes in condoms or taking fertility pills or calling me for a shag during class because she’s ovulating. I haven’t even had a turkey baster incident with her.” Arthur shuddered at the memory. He didn’t date women _or_ eat a turkey sandwich for two solid years after that fiasco. You couldn’t get a bloke pregnant…  
  
But you could date a possessive psycho named Cedric for two months.  
  
And then a winner named Valiant who dumped snakes in your car after a bad break-up.   
  
Fucking hell.  
  
In some way or another, all of his exes were crazy. Or ‘damaged’. Or clingy.  
  
And everyone wondered why he was weird about marriage.  
  
“Whatever. The fact is that you’re not marrying her or anyone you know as of today.” Morgana forked another piece of broccoli and chewed politely before she sipped her wine and told him, “You’re going to marry a bloke,” and looked positively gleeful about it.   


* * *

  
  
  
Two weeks later, Arthur was busy checking his texts while opening the car door for Sophia. They were meeting everyone for Lance and Gwen’s combined stag and hen party, but as usual, they were late because Sophia changed her clothes three times and then complained for fifteen minutes about the pub they were going to. So when she didn’t immediately step out like she was on the red carpet, he tucked his mobile into the pocket of his khakis and peevishly said, “What are you waiting for? We’re already late.”   
  
“I think we should get married.” She sounded completely sure of herself.  
  
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose as he started to feel the first pang of a Sophia-related migraine. They were more common than he liked to admit to himself. “What?” Maybe he had misheard her.  
  
“We should get married. What do you think?”  
  
Okay. So much for vouching for her to Morgana. “_I_ think we should discuss this later.” Arthur gestured for her to get out the car. “Perhaps in four hours when I’ll be so pissed that I won’t remember ever having this conversation.” He considered it further. “Or never.”  
  
“Arthur, I’m serious,” Sophia glared.  
  
He snorted. “That makes two of us.”  
  
She proceeded to spend the next few minutes pouting so hard Arthur thought her bottom lip was going to turn inside out. “Why won’t you marry me?” Her bracelets jingled with the question as she flapped her arms dramatically. “I’m awesome!”  
  
“We’ve only been dating for two months.” Arthur couldn’t believe they were _discussing_ this. Or rather that he was actually allowing her to go off on one about it. He felt he was well within his rights to leave her there. Many would agree.   
  
“My parents dated two weeks before they got married.”  
  
“Aren’t your parents divorced?”  
  
“That’s beside the point.”  
  
“Didn’t they divorce before you were even born?”  
  
“Still not the point, Arthur!” Finally, she got out the car. But she continued talking crazy marriage nonsense that Arthur still didn’t compute. So, as far as he was concerned, it wasn’t much better. “It’s romantic. Sometimes when two people are so in love—” Arthur inwardly balked at that. He was _not_ in love. At the moment, he wasn’t even in _like_. And he was certain that she couldn’t even spell love, much less feel it. For him. “Their love for each other just makes them do impulsive things, like take a leap and get married!”  
  
“Well, that’s good for them,” Arthur deadpanned.  
  
She stomped her foot and folded her arms. “You’re so infuriating, Arthur Pendragon.”   
  
“I know.” Arthur glanced at his fingernails. “Have you stopped wanting to marry me yet?”  
  
“No.” Sophia replied stubbornly. “Have you changed your mind?”  
  
“No, and it’s very likely—scratch that, it’s _definite_ that I won’t.”  
  
He took back everything quasi-positive that he ever said about her. Maybe she didn’t stalk him like Cedric or try to trick him into fatherhood like Vivian, but Sophia clearly was a special brand of crazy if she thought he was going to marry her.   
  
And right then, Arthur wondered why he was still dating her. It had been fine at first, albeit a little creepy. Sophia was a one night stand that had refused to go away, and soon enough he had grown weary with trying to fight her off with a stick. So she became his girlfriend. Minus the minor stalking at the beginning and the fact that she used her breasts to get whatever she wanted, she was okay enough. He didn’t have any feelings for her, but then again, he had never had feelings for any of the men or women that he dated.   
  
Maybe that was why he dated so many crazies.  
  
Hmmm.  
  
“I’m sure that I can convince you.” Sophia tried the _‘slither up to Arthur and press her breasts against him’_ trick, which did not work.  
  
He wasn’t _that_ easy.  
  
Arthur held her at arm’s length. “No, you can’t. I’m not just going to marry anyone who half-demands it. So drop it. And let’s go in.” He shut the car door and pressed the lock button to activate the alarm.  
  
“I don’t want to go in with you anymore.” She raised her voice unnecessarily. Probably to get a rise out of him. Whatever. Sophia held up her left hand. “If you don’t want to put a ring on it, then I don’t see why we’re together.”  
  
“So first you want me to propose and now you’re breaking up with me?”  
  
“No, I’m breaking up with you _because_ you won’t propose.”  
  
“Okay,” he shrugged. “I’m going in now.”  
  
“You aren’t even upset? You should be upset! I’m breaking up with you, Arthur!”  
  
“I heard you the first time, but my best mate’s getting married tomorrow and I’m going to celebrate with him.” He walked toward the pub doors and opened them with one quick jerk. “Cheers!”   
  
Arthur let the door shut behind him.   
  
The first thing he did as a single man was order everyone a round. On him.  


* * *

  
  
  
The next morning, Arthur rolled over to his back and pulled the blanket to his chin. It smelled like alcohol, fags, and aftershave, and filled him with an atypical feeling—nausea.  
  
He flung the covers off and rushed to the bathroom, cursing every deity he could think of while heaving violently into the toilet. Staggering to his feet, Arthur frowned distastefully at his reflection before wiping the saliva from the corners of his mouth. He picked the crusty bits of sleep from his eyes, cringing as he vaguely recalled shouting the words, _“Asexuality, for the win!”_ over and over last night.  
  
The lights flipped on and Arthur was suddenly inundated with the smell of eggs, sizzling eggs, _burning_ eggs. He looked up, expecting to see Satan himself relishing in his successful hangover hell, but found his cousin, Morgana, standing there with a crazy smile, a mixing spoon, and a frying pan in her hands.  
  
So…not Satan, but his demon, wedding-predicting spawn instead. Close enough.  
  
“Morning, Sunshine!”  
  
Arthur gagged. “Get that out of my face,” then cringed because even his own voice was migraine-inducing. He turned on the tap and thought about drowning himself in the running water, but considered Morgana’s sweetly scathing words at his eulogy and thought better of it.   
  
After drying his face with a clean towel, Arthur glanced over at the un-moving Morgana just as her boyfriend…fuck-buddy…_whatever_, Leon, appeared and unceremoniously forked some eggs out. Arthur frowned so hard it hurt when he noticed the drops of eggs falling down Leon’s chest as he ate. Four years ago, when they were just starting out in Uni, the sight of food on Leon would’ve gone directly into the ‘wank’ category of his fantasies.   
  
Right along with Lance’s mere _existence_.  
  
Today, it just made him moan in pain. “It’s no wonder you’ve had to settle for the psycho. You eat like a bloody _pig_.”  
  
Leon at least had the decency to flush before he took the pan and wandered back into the kitchen. Meanwhile, Morgana quirked an eyebrow at Arthur and countered, “And I see why you’re such an excellent catch, Arthur. It’s the inebriated striptease mixed with the morning-after regrets that does it, I’m sure.”  
  
Arthur sputtered uncharacteristically. “The—the _what_?!”  
  
The loony smile returned to his cousin’s face. “It wasn’t _that_ bad. You made almost a hundred pounds and got two job offers before Gwen and I dragged you away from your adoring fans. Lance and I stuffed you in the back of a taxi and brought you back to your flat.”  
  
He ran his hands over his face in horror. “What happened last night?”  
  
“I was about to ask you the same thing. When I got to the party, you were ranting about how Sophia was a loon and your cat would be the only one to ever _truly_ love you.” Morgana chuckled. “You don’t even have a cat.”  
  
Arthur glared. “I may get one.”  
  
“You’re allergic to their saliva.”  
  
“So.”  
  
“My kitten put you in the hospital when he licked your foot.”  
  
“It’s evil,” he retorted in the same tone he would use to tell her the weather.  
  
“Mordred isn’t evil, Arthur, he just _likes_ you, for some demented reason or another. He’s probably a kitty masochist or something. I have no idea.”  
  
Arthur begged to differ. It was evil and he couldn’t be convinced otherwise.   
  
Morgana stared as if she knew his thoughts—_scary_—and rolled her eyes, sighing the, _‘I’m related to the biggest douchebag on planet Earth’_ sigh. He knew it very well. “Back to last night,” she clasped her hands together, wry grin returning. “I must say that I was extremely surprised to see you hammered and ranting to Lance and Gwen about how you were going to become an asexual, Buddhist monk because you were never going to find ‘the one’. I almost felt bad for you.” The corner of her lips quirked. “_Almost._ I’ve seen your future husband, after all.”  
  
He could only blink at her, first in annoyance, “Shut your gob about—” Then his brain caught up with the rest of what she’d divulged and he gaped at her, horrified. "Shit. No. Why? Why did I—what the _hell_ possessed me? How—" Arthur stumbled out inelegantly, unsure of what question to go with and trying to understand how he had gotten to that point last night.  
  
Arthur remembered being three beers in before he told everyone what had happened between him and Sophia. Owain—Fucking _Owain_—had claimed that Tequila-Vodka combos made for a very easy remedy to the pain of the lovelorn. Lance and Gwen had warned him to take it easy, _beer before liquor made you sicker_, and all that jazz. But he ignored them in favour of shots. Lots of them. Alcohol worked like a dream. Soon, he was boldly toasting his best friend’s happiness, declaring his asexuality to the world, and dancing on stage, forgetting every shred of dignity he’d been born with and losing pieces of his outfit until he was—  
  
“Oh, God.”  
  
She grinned. “Close, but not quite. I’m just Morgana.”  
  
“Piss—” It was right about then when Arthur heard the frying pan slam into the sink, reverberating through his skull at insanely high decibels. “Pills. I need pills. And water.”  
  
“What were you saying now? Piss what?”  
  
“Morgana!” Arthur tried to snap with as much attitude as he could muster, but it came out in a pathetic moan. “Be nice to me. I’m in pain! I never pick on you when you’re hungover.”  
  
“Yes you do.” She folded her arms, still holding on to the mixing spoon. “But I suppose I’ll be _nice_,” Morgana said the word as if put a bad taste in her mouth, “and fetch you some medication.”   
  
When she walked out, Arthur did a half-walk/half-crawl back to bed and managed to get situated without any further head throbbing. Morgana returned several minutes later with pills and water. Arthur took the pills and frowned because his mouth still tasted terrible. He spotted a pack of Morgana’s cigarettes on his nightstand, which told him that she was a lot more concerned about his well-being than she let on. She only smoked when she worried. It made him preen on the inside. He pulled a cigarette from the pack, thinking maybe it would get the taste of Tequila and puke out his mouth.  
  
Morgana intervened, snatching the dangling fag from his fingers. She stuck it in her mouth and before he could protest, it was lit. “Sorry, Arthur, but you’re not getting my last one.”  
  
“That shit is going to kill you.”  
  
“And chasing vodka with tequila shots is going to destroy your liver. I guess I’ll see you in hell, Cousin,” she replied coolly as she exhaled smoke.   
  
He sipped on his water, glaring at her. It was only when a few drops of water ran down his chin and landed on his chest that he realised his shirt was missing. Arthur looked under the covers. Well, at least he had his trousers back on. “What happened to my shirt?”   
  
“Gone forever, I’m sure of it,” Morgana replied flippantly as she took another drag from her cigarette.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“It disappeared a little bit after you propelled yourself onto the stage, gave Gwen and Lance a pre-wedding speech that sounded like lyrics to some badly translated Japanese love song, and started dancing to Ricky Martin. ‘Shake Your Bon-Bon’, if you really want to know.”  
  
“I didn’t.”  
  
Morgana just flashed an amused grin, reminding him that he would never, ever live last night down. “Someone—who sounded an _awful_ lot like me—“ Arthur glared as hard as he could with a raging hangover, “started a ‘Take it off!’ chant and you obliged…very willingly, I might add.” She tapped the cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table before bringing it back to her lips.  
  
“I hate you.”   
  
“Sure you do, Arthur.” She rolled her eyes and exhaled smoke. “Anyway, I guess a few people started fighting over your shirt. There were a few fists thrown and it all got hazy after that.” She batted the air in front of her face as if she were lazily shooing a fly. “Security guards yelling, my laughter, and whatnot.” Morgana chuckled at the memory. “Good times, good times.”  
  
“I _really_ hate you.”  
  
She ignored him with practiced ease. “Who knew you could actually cut loose like that? Granted your dancing needs a fair amount work; you kind of looked like someone having an insane hip seizure during an earthquake, while drunk and on LSD.”  
  
“Go away.”  
  
“Not a chance. Besides, we’ve got to be at the church in an hour for the wedding, Best Man.”   
  
Arthur groaned and rolled over, only to go careening off the side of the bed.   
  
Morgana’s laughter filled the room.

* * *

  
  
Arthur shifted his weight from one leg to the other, doing everything in his power to not look bored while his two best friends exchange wedding vows. He was happy for them. Really. There weren’t two people in the world better matched for each other. And he’d known that since Lance introduced Gwen to him the second year of Uni. But really. _Really._ Lance’s thirteen page poem—could it even be _called_ a poem? That was like calling War and Peace a vignette—that fully expressed his love, adoration, and devotion to his bride was just a bit much.   
  
If he didn’t shut up soon, Arthur was certain he would puke in the vase six feet to his left. He had it all calculated out. The scramble would only take three seconds and five long strides.   
  
He might make it.   
  
_Might._  
  
If he concentrated. Really hard.  
  
His second option was upchucking on Owain’s shoes (because he’d never vomit on his own). Not only were they expensive (Cesare Paciotti’s, _thankyouverymuch_), but Owain deserved it as punishment for the Tequila-Vodka hell he was in.  
  
Speaking of, The Enabler himself nudged Arthur. “You all right, mate?” he whispered. “You look a little green.”  
  
Arthur _felt_ green and was seconds from giving Owain the two-fingered salute in front of God, the minister, and everyone, but decided against it and just glared. Hard. Really hard. Like he was capable of making Owain’s head pop off with the power of his eyes. He was positive that his point had been made when Owain looked away—probably scanning the pews for the girl he was going to have a clichéd night of drunken post-wedding reception sex with, but that was neither here nor there.  
  
Arthur focused back on Lance’s vows.  
  
Lance was a shitty poet, but no one seemed to notice or mind the blatant cheese-fest going on. Arthur had told Lance a month ago to edit his vows down to five pages from the original nine, but his request had been met with a look of horror, _“I couldn’t possibly express all my feelings in five pages,”_ and then he kept adding more. And more. Arthur hadn’t argued any more. If he wanted to make a right fool of himself, then he could. It was his wedding, after all.   
  
Unfortunately, his poem—Novel? Epic? Spoken _song_?—was a hit.   
  
Gwen wasn’t the only teary-eyed woman. He could hear the sighs and sniffles and soft coos. Clarice, his sixth stepmother, was dabbing her eyes carefully with the handkerchief that had come from the pocket of his father’s suit. Angela, one of his many ex-girlfriends from University, was crying mascara tears. And _Morgana_. She was standing right next to Gwen with an oddly emotional look on her slightly flushed face.   
  
She was not going to live this down, Arthur decided. Not ever.  
  
“_You are the light of my life, and without you, there would be a blight. In my life…even at night._” Lance paused, and Arthur was filled with the hope that he was done. Disappointment was a stone cold bitch, he realised, when his best friend merely flipped over the page and continued reading. As much as he loved Lance, he was too hungover for this shit. Arthur managed to stifle the long-suffering sigh, but not the dramatic eye roll that accompanied it.  
  
It was okay, he told himself, when he realised what he had done.   
  
No one would even notice him over Lance’s vows of devotion.  
  
He was wrong. Naturally.  
  
When his eyes returned from their journey to the back of his skull, they immediately locked with a pair of unfamiliar eyes ones in the first row on Gwen’s side. Arthur was far enough away to be unable to tell their colour (maybe blue?), but close enough to notice the smile lines in the corners of them. And the ears that stuck out like Dopey from _Snow White_, but that didn’t have anything to do with it. He just noticed them. Because they were big. Like monkey ears. Or elves. And Arthur stopped because he was mixing metaphors again and the bloke was just _smiling_ at him with amusement.   
  
Arthur tried to give himself a quick onceover to make sure he hadn’t gotten anything on his tux (Morgana said that he hadn’t, but she was a known liar; at least when it came to making sure he didn’t look like a fool). He was clean. Pristine even. And the stranger’s grin widened. Now, he looked a bit mad…in a cute-ish way. Cute?! If Arthur could blush—and he couldn’t, really, he tried—he would have been as red as the bridesmaids’ dresses. He proceeded to scrub the cute thought clean out of his mind, vaguely noticing that the ancient minister was nodding off.   
  
“_…I can’t wait to start our life together, and I vow that we’ll be happy forever and ever._ And that’s it.” Lance folded his thick tome of vows and put them in his pocket. Arthur almost whooped with joy, but restrained himself. Barely. The bright grin that appeared quickly after Lance concluded his poem disappeared when his best friend pulled out a thick stack of folded papers from his other pocket.   
  
He pretty much wanted to die at that point.   
  
“Umm…” Lance nervously fiddled with the papers. “These pages are blank, not because I didn’t have anything left to say—” Arthur almost snorted at that. “But because they represent our new beginning, the new poems—” Gwen promptly burst into tears as she fondly reached for the folded papers in his hand. It looked like Lance was at a loss for words. Also unusual. “I—” And Gwen finished his sentence by kissing him, a bit early, but the ‘awws’ broke out and Arthur found himself now smiling genuinely.  
  
The minister decided that would be the perfect moment to regain complete consciousness and closed the ceremony as quickly as possible.  
  
Arthur waited twenty minutes after the photographs before he puked on Owain’s shoes, and damn if he didn’t feel much better after that.

* * *

  
  
The reception was all Morgana: lavish, efficient, and coordinated down to the gold-rimmed rubbish bins. The Colette Peters wedding cake was taller than the groom, which was just disturbing on all levels. The red table linens were colour co-ordinated with the centrepiece flowers, which in turn matched the bridesmaid’s sashes, the groomsmen’s ties, the bunting, the place cards, the candles, and the guestbook pen. And really, as Arthur looked around, everything reminded him of Martha Stewart on speed.  
  
But it was Morgana’s wedding gift to her best friend, and really, who would complain?  
  
“What do you think?” Morgana asked proudly, looking around. “Some people give their friends toaster ovens or ugly dishes or something they’ll never use, but I give my friends a _reception_. Something they’ll never, ever forget.” She spun around in a circle on the back of her heels. “I’m pretty much the best friend, ever.”  
  
“And modest, too,” Arthur deadpanned.  
  
“Exactly,” she preened. “It’s very hard to be this humble.”  
  
Arthur rolled his eyes and politely offered his arm. Together, the maid of honour and best man walked towards the receiving line.  
  
The next two hours of Arthur’s life were very proper. The receiving line was quite dignified. Dinner was grand. The first couple of toasts to the bride and groom were touching. Arthur didn’t have too many stories of Lance’s hijinks, because he typically was the one making a right fool of himself while Lance watched with amusement. And Morgana outed herself as the owner of the worst superpower, ever, and no one except Arthur—and maybe Lance—believed her. Her speech was more endearing and awkward than funny.   
  
But by the time the rest of the speeches rolled around, the champagne and wine had started to wear the venerated edges off just about everyone and hilarity was setting in. Gwen, who seemed to be over the worst of her jitters, looked fiercely embarrassed when the first ribald remarks took off. To Arthur—and maybe Gwen’s—relief, it was all good-natured and in relatively good taste.  
  
When the final speech concluded, the cake had been cut and all the tables cleared away for dancing. The party began in earnest just after Lance and Gwen’s first dance. The first sounds of music seemed to stir everyone from their post-dinner conversations and the jackets and ties, and in some cases high heels, started coming off faster than he could have ever imagined.  
  
As soon as Morgana spotted him enjoying a second piece of wedding cake, she snatched the fork from his hand and pulled him to his feet with the other.  
  
“Let’s dance,” was the only thing she said as she dragged him onto the floor.  
  
“Why thank you for _asking_, Cousin.” Arthur drawled.   
  
Morgana wasn’t lying when she said he was a crap dancer. When Arthur was fifteen, his fourth stepmonster decided that dancing would be good for him, and convinced his father to put him into a class. Arthur had never forgiven…wait, what was her name? Diana? No, she was the first. Helen? Wait, she was the third. Catrina. Yes. Catty Catrina. Morgana called her a troll behind her back for a solid year. Anyway, he never forgave Catrina for putting him in those stupid dance classes. They were heinously boring and formal, his classmates would fight like cats over who would be his partner because they all wanted to get close to Uther Pendragon’s son, and they made him wear suits.   
  
Arthur _hated_ suits with an irrational passion…no matter how good he looked in them.   
  
“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to dance with me?” Morgana asked, snapping her fingers in his face.  
  
He gave a long sigh and led her into a poor rendition of a Waltz.  
  
Arthur didn’t hate dancing; he just didn’t care—okay, he hated it.   
  
It wasn’t that he was self-conscious or hopelessly awkward on the floor—Uther had exorcised the ‘awkward teen angst’ out of him before he turned eleven—Arthur just didn’t understand the purpose of it all. He knew the moves, knew where to put his hands, and how to not look like a total ponce, but Arthur couldn’t execute a dance to save his life. He stepped on Morgana’s foot four times—and received five icy glares—before he finally found some sort of rhythm and pulled her along.   
  
“I have a request,” Morgana started a few minutes later.   
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“After you get married—”  
  
“I really don’t want to discuss this.” And he didn’t, because if he thought about it, he would be curious. If he was curious, he’d start grilling her about the identity of his…err…future husband? That just sounded creepy. So if he started grilling her, he’d find out more information about…him. Then Arthur wouldn’t be able to pass by a bloke and not wonder if he was ‘the one’ and all that rubbish, which would just make him crazy. And weird. And possibly in need of a room with padded walls. So he decided not to think about it. That was best. Besides, just because a statistically significant amount of her dreams came true, didn’t mean that this particular dream would.   
  
He wasn’t going to get married. Really. He’d seen how his father’s marriages worked out.   
  
No thanks.  
  
And when he told Morgana this, she just laughed. Hard. “Right, and I’m an android.”  
  
“That would explain some things,” Arthur quipped.  
  
His cousin retorted with an icy glare before shoving him in the chest. “You know, Lance said the same thing when I told him.”  
  
“You told him?”  
  
“Of course, I did. I tell everyone…except Uther, of course, he’d probably institutionalise me.”  
  
“Might do you some good.”  
  
“Shut up, Arthur. I’m not crazy and you know it.” Morgana huffed at him. “Goodness, Uther’s six marriages after your mother’s death has definitely left its mark on you.” And she didn’t sound too pleased about that, either. “Just wait for the signs, and soon enough, you’ll see that I’m right about these things.” She poked him in the shoulder. “And once you marry him, I was thinking that when you adopt your Cambodian baby, you should name her after me. Or Morgan, if it’s a boy.”  
  
“I wouldn’t name my non-existent kitten after you.”  
  
“What is with you and your newfound obsession with kittens?”  
  
The song ended before Arthur made her give him the _‘you really _were_ dropped on your head as a baby’_ look by answering her rhetorical question. She wandered off to terrorize the masses with tales of her awesomeness and Arthur grabbed a fresh slice of cake and a glass of champagne, before finding an unoccupied table—the only one in the room—and sat down. He exhaled before—  
  
“Mind if I join you?”   
  
Arthur paused mid-bite, eyebrow arched like a tiny boomerang. Two things:  
  
1) The song playing was terribly cheesy.  
2) He didn’t recognise the voice of the bloke speaking to him. He didn’t sound very British.  
  
He gave a noncommittal shrug, but didn’t look up. “If you want.”  
  
The person plopped—yes, _plopped_—into the seat next to Arthur like a pouting _girl_ who didn’t get the biscuits she wanted. This, of course, drew Arthur’s attention. He couldn’t help himself. Really. And then Arthur wished he could, because the flopping bloke was Teacup-Handle Ears from the ceremony. The one who saw Arthur rolling his eyes at Lance’s ridiculous poetry. Shit.   
  
And his smile widened when he recognised Arthur.  
  
“You’re the eye-rolling Best Man.” Elf-Ears said, without much tact. And then he laughed at himself for some reason Arthur failed to understand. His laugh was weird, Arthur assessed. It was a series of snorts and fits and not-so manly giggles. And it went on for quite some time. Ten seconds. Maybe more. And by the time he stifled himself, Windmill-Ears was wearing a creepily bright smile. “You kind of made my morning. I was sitting there thinking, ‘there has to be _someone_ in here who thinks his poetry is terrible’ and then I saw you. And I figured if his best friend was rolling his eyes, then I could at least snicker. Quietly. God forbid if Gwen had actually heard me. She knows my snicker.”  
  
Normally, Arthur would have gone at him like a spider monkey for daring to talk about his best friend, but they were at a wedding reception and, really, Shrek-Ears had a point. Lance’s poetry really _was_ god-awful. And long. But first: “You know Gwen?”  
  
“Yeah, we grew up right next door to each other. I moved away after my mum died when I was twelve; went to live with my uncle Gaius in Maine. We kept up with letters for a few years and then, I’m not sure, we just stopped. Life, you know. But she found me on Facebook a week after I signed up, and we reconnected.”   
  
Arthur just stared, blinking, as the stranger told him the Gwen-centric chunk of his life’s story. He would never get used to how direct some people were; how they never held back, and spoke candidly no matter what the situation. Arthur never expressed or told more than necessary. He didn’t know how to, really. Being the son of a popular Parliament member meant that he couldn’t trust everyone and the right information in the wrong hands meant a long lecture from Uther…and a lot of damage control. Hell, even his _‘hey, I’m bisexual’_ announcement had been a carefully crafted ordeal to avoid a scandal.  
  
“I just moved back to London two months ago,” Mr Spock continued. He probably should figure out the bloke’s name before he ran out of nicknames. “I was hired to teach First Years at Belknapp Primary School.” Gwen taught Third Years with special needs there. Three of the girls in her class had served as flower girls, one boy was the ring-bearer, and the rest sat with their parents in the second row. “She was my reference, and probably the only reason I got the job. I’ve been teaching for two years and this is my second classroom. I’m still a bit green.”  
  
Gwen, Arthur inwardly mused, was the only person he knew who rambled like this. And her mindless chatter was the result of a nervous tick. His seemed natural. Like he always ran off at the mouth. It was kind of endearing…in a weird, quirky, and maybe demented sort of way.   
  
“I’m Merlin, by the way.” He stuck out his hand, face open and friendly. “And you are?”  
  
“Arthur,” he replied, shaking Merlin’s hand firmly. “Arthur Pendragon.” Then he waited for him to realise just whose son he was talking to.  
  
Of course, Merlin never did.  
  
“Pleasure to meet you.”  
  
Oh right, he lived in the States up until recently.  
  
“So,” Arthur began after taking a sip of champagne. “Merlin, eh? That’s a strange name.”  
  
He shrugged. “It’s a—”  
  
“Like the bird, the aero engine, or the wizard with the pointy hat?”  
  
“Actually, like my great uncle and great-grandfatfher.”  
  
“Oh…”  
  
“In 1931, Merlin was ranked as the two hundred and eighty-eighth most popular name for a boy."  
  
He cocked a brow. "Why do you even _know_ that?"  
  
"I like random information, and when your name is Merlin, you like to find out all the facts."  
  
A slow smile shifted Arthur’s features.  
  
“What about you?” Merlin inquired, looking absolutely genuine. “I mean, I heard your toast so you don’t have to repeat the supporting material or explain how you know Lance, but…yeah.”  
  
For the first time, Arthur didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t had to answer this particular question in a long time. So what about him? It would have been easy for him to give the textbook _‘I’m Arthur, I’m twenty-four, I just graduated from medical school and I’m an FHO1, and contrary to popular beliefs, my father fully supports my decision not to go into politics.’_ It seemed impersonal, especially for what he already knew about Merlin. And that made him frown. Since when did he care about seeming aloof? Aloof was his middle name! So he stubbornly went with his textbook answer.  
  
Only to receive a puzzled look from Merlin in response. “What’s an FHO1 and who’s your father?”  
  
“FHO1 stands for Foundation House Officer One. It’s what fresh graduates from medical school are.”  
  
“Like a Resident? That’s what they’re called in the States.”  
  
“Yes, in a way.”  
  
“And your father?”   
  
Arthur cursed his selective memory and automatic answers. “He’s in Parliament,” which was the simple answer. The complex one involved explaining his father’s role as Speaker of the House of Commons. Arthur mentally sulked and waited for his reaction. If Merlin didn’t know how important his father was before, he definitely would know now.  
  
So, of course he doesn’t know.   
  
In fact, Merlin seemed to chew on Arthur’s words for several moments before he said, “He’s one of those guys with the wigs?”  
  
“They don’t wear wigs, _Mer_lin.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s become quite clear that I—” Arthur caught himself. “_Gwen_ will have to educate you on your Mother Country at some point before you open your mouth and embarrass yourself.”  
  
He smiled. “I figure that when someone catches on to how Americanised I am, I’ll just randomly break out with _‘God Save The Queen’_ to distract them, and then run. I feel this is a solid plan.”  
  
Arthur stared at him as if he couldn’t quite believe that a person like him actually existed. Then he laughed. Harder than he had in a very long time. Even while he had first started shagging Sophia on a regular basis and was uncharacteristically happy. Merlin joined in with his weird laugh that wasn’t all that weird the second time around. And that was how Morgana and Leon found them.  
  
“There you are, Arthur.” Just like that, their laughter died. Merlin went from smiling at him to looking straight ahead, clearly uncomfortable. Arthur realised two things:   
  
1) They had been sort of close. Close enough for him to notice the light flush that had crept over Merlin’s face.  
2) He was irritated. Not with Merlin, but Morgana for killing the mood.   
  
He’d been _enjoying_ himself. While talking to another human being who wasn’t in his circle of friends.   
  
Funny how that worked.  
  
Arthur’s head snapped to Morgana, ready to tell her where she could shove her interruptions, but she gave him a look that clearly said, _‘Try me, and I’ll show you what _real_ suffering feels like’_. So he didn’t. No need to embarrass himself in front of Merlin this soon. “Something you need, Cousin?” He made sure that his tone conveyed his annoyance.  
  
It did, he knew this, because she smirked. “I’ve only been looking for you for ages.”  
  
“Well, I’ve been right here the entire time. With—” The smile that surfaced on her pale face was disturbing enough to make Merlin’s name die in his mouth.   
  
“I see.” Instead of looking at him when she said this, she was looking curiously at the back of Merlin’s head. Like a complete creeper. Leon, who had been previously tugging at his tie as if it were a malevolent noose, was even looking at her, eyebrow arched. “Sorry that we interrupted you and…” She trailed off, expecting Arthur to fill in the space with a name.  
  
“Merlin,” he supplied helpfully. Merlin turned and gave her a one of his open, friendly waves. “This is my annoying cousin…” The words died on his lips when a now wide-eyed Morgana inhaled sharply and started coughing. “Morgana!”   
  
Leon patted her back until she shooed him off, assuring that she was fine; that she’d taken in too much air. She downed the entire flute of champagne, gave Merlin a dazzling smile, and croakily said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, _Merlin_.” And gave Arthur a meaningful look that he didn’t even come close to understanding.  
  
She was off her rocker, anyway.

* * *

  
  
One of the last customs to be fulfilled before the bride and groom made their exit from the wedding reception was the traditional tossing of the bridal bouquet. Merlin, seconds before, had made an absolute spectacle of himself as he clumsily tripped over his own two feet and ended up with Gwen’s garter on his head. Which made him freak out harder. Merlin’s arm was stretched out as far as he could and he was holding the garter between thumb and index finger. He was staring at it in horror.  
  
Arthur chortled, snatching the garter from twitchy fingers and stuffing it into Merlin’s pocket. “I had no idea that you were such a _girl_.”  
  
“And I had no idea that you were such a prat.”  
  
He smirked. “Merlin, you haven’t been back long enough to earn your ‘British-slang’ card. Try again next time.”  
  
“Okay, how’s this? You’re an ass.” But he was smiling as he said that, so it didn’t count.  
  
When they re-joined Morgana, who was helping Leon out of his tie, they were still taking the piss to each other. And Morgana was giving them funny looks and wide, glowing smiles. Weird. He thought it better to ignore her so he picked on Merlin more.   
  
The fact that Merlin hadn’t left his side was the result of some sort of unspoken agreement; a look they’d exchange when Morgana dragged them from their table. Merlin hardly knew anyone, and Arthur didn’t want to be bothered with his friends, who were wrapped around their conquests, and Gwen’s giggling Uni friends. And besides, Merlin was interesting. Strange, yes. Uncomfortable around new people, sure. A terrible dancer, definitely; all the flailing he’d done on the floor could attest for that. He knew more useless information than anyone Arthur had ever known, but couldn’t remember what he’d eaten for breakfast that morning.   
  
It was sort of refreshing.   
  
When the call went out for all the single ladies to take their position, Arthur turned to Merlin. “So which one do you want to snog?” and gestured out to the single women who were crowding the floor.   
  
Merlin looked confused. “What? I thought I’d have to dance with them.”  
  
“Weren’t you listening when Gwen explained it before Lance threw the garter?”  
  
“Errr…no?”  
  
“Useless.” Arthur rolled his eyes. “Anyway, Gwen and Lance fancy themselves matchmakers, so instead of dancing, the bloke who catches the garter—_you_—will snog whoever catches the bouquet.” When Merlin made a face, Arthur laughed and clapped him on the back. “You don’t need to be a girl about it, it’s just a kiss.”  
  
“I haven’t kissed a girl since I decided that full-time heterosexuality wasn’t really me.”  
  
The eavesdropping Morgana snorted. She handed Leon his tie and sent him off to get them more champagne. “So you’re gay then?” she bluntly asked. Arthur nearly choked, but disguised it behind a cough.  
  
Of course, open Merlin just smiled and answered, “Bi, actually, with a side of whoever-will-have-me.”  
  
“Arthur is, too.”  
  
“Morgana!” he exclaimed. “Leave my sexuality out of it.” It wasn’t like he was hiding—Gods, no. He worked hard to be able to freely say that he was bisexual, but didn’t want his stupid cousin to broadcast it so brashly.  
  
She looked unapologetic. “Well, you _are_. Even with the side of ‘whoever-will-have-me’ part.” Looking at Merlin, she whispered loudly, “He’s a bit of a prat.”  
  
Merlin smiled. “So I noticed.”  
  
“You both can fuck off.”  
  
They both laughed at him just before Gwen did a last call for single birds.   
  
“You should go, Morgana,” Merlin urged.  
  
She made a face that was akin to having just been told she had to eat live, hissing cockroaches. Arthur laughed openly at her disgust. Vengeance was sweet. “She avoids catching the bouquet at all costs.”  
  
“Why?”   
  
“A lady at one of my father’s weddings, I forget which one, tackled Morgana just as she caught the bouquet. Fractured her hand in three places in the process.”  
  
Merlin’s eyes widened. “Jesus.”  
  
“Oh, the lady didn’t fracture her hand. Morgana did that herself when she punched her in the face.” He thought about telling Merlin about how big of a news spectacle that punch had been, but decided against it. He was having way too much fun to explain the politics of a punch.  
  
“She broke my nail,” Morgana seethed as if it had just happened. “My hand didn’t look right for weeks.”  
  
“Your hand didn’t look right because it was in a cast for two months.”  
  
Morgana waved Arthur off. “Semantics.”  
  
Merlin laughed.  
  
Glancing around at some of the rabid expressions, Arthur had a gleeful feeling that this particular bouquet toss was likely to resemble the one at his father’s fifth wedding—a knock down, drag-out cat fight between a handful of desperate, unmarried women. All of whom had had too much to drink and were already in belligerent moods to be begin with, after standing for far too many hours in shoes that weren’t designed for long term comfort.   
  
This was going to be epic.  
  
Arthur grinned. He was thrilled that Gwen was so traditional. And not only was she traditional, but she seemed to be taking the idea of passing the ‘torch’ to the next bride-to-be far too seriously as she insisted that everyone should be positioned so the throw would be fair. When Gwen was finally satisfied, she turned her back to the crowd, closed her eyes, and bent her knees for a textbook backwards toss.  
  
Like with most brides, and Arthur had seen _a lot_ of bouquet tosses, enthusiasm got the best of her. It should have just been a backwards lob, but Gwen stumbled at the last second on something Arthur couldn’t see and the bouquet went wild. It flew through the air like a missile and, as Arthur and everyone watched in amazement, it sailed in an arc, nearly ripping through some of the bunting that swung from the ceiling. From there, it bounced off one of the crystal chandeliers, changed trajectory, and ricocheted—  
  
Oh. Shit.   
  
Arthur had no warning; no time to get out the way. The best he could manage was to throw up his arms in self-defence so the bouquet wouldn’t hit him in the face. But when he lowered his hands, wide-eyed with shock, Arthur discovered that not only was he the newfound centre of attention, but that he was the recipient of a thundering round of applause and a great deal of laughter. Merlin’s was probably the loudest, followed very closely by Morgana’s.  
  
“There are signs…and then there are _signs_…” Morgana choked out and dissolved into another peal of laughter.  
  
For everyone present, it was nothing more than a hilarious event. For Arthur, it was a manifestation of everything his stupid cousin had said to him in the last couple of months. _’You’re going to get married, Arthur. I’ve seen it.’_ Lo and behold, despite his efforts to ignore her completely, Arthur found himself clutching the most obvious sign of the end of his single days.  
  
He’d caught the bridal bouquet.  


* * *

  
  
  
Well, this was too awkward for words.  
  
As soon as the Bouquet of Doom and Destruction beaned Arthur in the face, Morgana ran—yes, _ran_, in her four inch heels—to Gwen. And after a quick and chirpy conversation, the bride conspiratorially declared that Arthur should kiss Merlin. “It’s only fair, after all,” Gwen had said in a rush. “Since you’re both—well, errr, you know. Not that anyone cares here, right? We’re all open-minded, right? I’m not going to force it, so if that was okay with Merlin. And you, too, Arthur, and—” She noticed Morgana, who was wildly waving her arms off to the side. “Right then."   
  
Merlin choked out a few half words before Morgana concluded that he was just fine with it. But when Arthur threw a fit—err, _complained_—about having to snog another bloke in front of everyone, Merlin was the one to mockingly say, “Don't be such a _girl_ about it, Arthur. It’s just a kiss. Isn’t that what you said?”  
  
He took back every quasi-nice thing he’d ever thought about Merlin.   
  
What was worse was that the pro-snoggers were winning the battle. Everyone who gave half a fuck had crowded around them and started chanting for them to snog while his chipper cousin just grinned and mouthed ‘fate’ to him. Morgana was a sadist. An evil, wedding-predicting witch. And he hoped that she got pelted with a thousand—no, a _million_, wedding bouquets.   
  
And after the chanting started, Arthur very well couldn’t prove everyone right. He had an image to uphold, dammit, and he was not going down like this. Merlin was giving him a sort of challenging smile and all he could think was: ‘Game on,’ while pursing his lips. Normally, Arthur would’ve worked out every aspect of the kiss in his head: the angles, intensity, and length. So, naturally, he didn’t do any of this before he grabbed Merlin by the tie and brought their lips together.   
  
It was all wrong at first.  
  
First, he realised too late that Merlin was slightly taller than him, so the angles were all wrong. But before that, Arthur found out that Merlin was really, _really_ clumsy. Sort of a mess. A flailing mess of limbs that crashed into Arthur and nearly sent them backwards. But by some miracle, they managed to stay on their feet. Barely. Arthur tugged his tie again, impatiently murmuring, “Come on,” for only Merlin to hear.   
  
Merlin exhaled against Arthur’s mouth, which should not have made his head foggy. But it did. In fact, Arthur didn’t fully snap out of the haze until Merlin started kissing him deeply, but with caution, like he was impatiently testing the waters. The pressure was all wrong and sloppy and Merlin was a shoddy leader.   
  
So Arthur pulled back to where their lips were barely touching, and then they did things his way, which was better. More dignified. Arthur took his time, kissing Merlin gently and lingering before trying it again…with just a bit more pressure. He didn’t take it further; he wanted to taste him while he had the chance, but it wasn’t the right time and, honestly, they didn’t need it. Kissing a bloke was different. Arthur knew it. Kissing a woman was like a dance; an art. But kissing a bloke was more of a battle. And with Merlin, it was like a bloody _war_ because he absolutely _refused_ to just blindly follow Arthur’s lead. And before he knew it, Merlin’s hand was firmly behind his neck and they were snogging like a couple of horny teenagers.   
  
And fuck him if it wasn’t good. Better than good.   
  
A clearing throat made Arthur remember that it was Saturday, they were at a wedding, and everyone was staring at them, slack-jawed. It would have been the perfect time to get embarrassed, but Merlin randomly blurted, “God save the queen!” and everyone dissolved into laughter.  
  
Even Arthur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don’t own any of the Merlin characters. Or the show. Or anything. But that’s okay. I’m content with just playing in their sandbox.


	2. Sex in a Hammock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took Arthur four days to realise that Merlin had put his number into his mobile, and he waited until the final day of August to send him a text message: ‘I c dead people’ 
> 
> An entire day passed before Merlin replied: ‘WTF'

_Two_

Arthur would love to say that he took Merlin back to his flat and put his mouth to good use, but that just didn’t happen. Not even a little bit. After the departure of the bride and groom robbed the last shred of dignity from the party, they had moved to shots and ended up getting royally pissed in their little corner of the reception hall.   
  
Morgana, who figured somebody had to be sober to make sure no one died, spent the rest of the night smiling creepily at them. Arthur spent the night mocking Merlin’s, well, existence. And Merlin kept yelling random information.   
  
_Did you know that your heart will probably beat thirty-six million times this year?”  
  
“In Greek culture, brides carry a lump of sugar in their wedding glove. It's supposed to bring sweetness to their married life. Gwen said August was too hot for gloves. Oh, and she’s not Greek.”  
  
“Olympic Badminton rules say that the birdie has to have exactly fourteen feathers.”_   
  
He was unstoppable.  
  
Because Merlin—in his state of ridiculous, useless-fact-quoting drunkenness—couldn’t get home by himself, Morgana hauled them back to Arthur’s flat, where they did _not_ shag like bunnies. Or even snog. Or even _touch_. They just slept like the dead on opposite ends of Arthur’s bed. The only positive thing was that Morgana wasn’t there to force-feed them burnt breakfast foods. He found painkillers in a kitchen drawer and helped themselves, washing them down with water before showering separately and venturing out for coffee together.   
  
“Hi,” Merlin smiled at the coffee vendor. “I’d like a venti vanilla latte with an extra shot of vanilla and caramel, and an extra pump of sugar please.”  
  
Arthur visibly blanched at the amount of sugar that was being requested, but the guy flashed Merlin a polite smile and said, “Coming up.”  
  
“Wait,” he rested his hands on the counter. “How much is that?”  
  
“Three quid.”  
  
“Better drop the extra vanilla shot. What does that make it?”  
  
Arthur would have rolled his eyes dramatically, but his hangover wasn’t being very nice.  
  
“Not much less.”  
  
“Better make it a tall. What does that make it?”  
  
“Two quid exactly.”  
  
“Better drop the sugar, what does that make it?”  
  
The coffee vendor shot Arthur a _‘do you know this nutter?’_ look, which was kind of mean, all things considered. When he cocked a brow, daring him to say anything else, the coffee vendor resigned, “Less calories?”  
  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Merlin,” Arthur butted in. “Make his original order, even with the girly extra shots and sugar.” When Merlin started to protest, he held up a hand. “I’m paying, you cheap idiot. I’m too hungover to argue this issue so shut up and abuse my good will.” Merlin mock-saluted and Arthur fought back a smile before completing the order. “I’ll have a regular coffee with a shot of java. No sugar. Thanks.”   
  
And an hour later, when Merlin took the Tube home, Arthur thought, _“Well, that’s that.”_  
  
It took Arthur four days to realise that Merlin had put his number into his mobile, and he waited until the final day of August to send him a text message: _‘I c dead people’_   
  
An entire day passed before Merlin replied: _‘WTF'_   
  
That was the start of a new month and their text message…err, bonding?   
  
Merlin’s first texts each morning were pieces of random information, like: _“Grapes explode when u put them in the microwave’_ or _Elephants can’t jump_. Arthur made sure to express his irritation, but he secretly liked knowing all the weird information in Merlin’s brain. From there, messages bounced back and forth until school started for Merlin, which was half an hour before Arthur was supposed to be at the hospital for work.  
  
Sometimes they texted a lot. Mostly about how their day was going or about something that had just happened or random questions that Arthur answered with a shocking amount of honesty.   
  
_‘Y r u single?’_ Merlin had texted him one afternoon in mid-September.  
  
Arthur thought about his reply for a full hour before punching it out during one of his short breaks. _‘Coz every1 wants more than I can give._ And then he felt super vulnerable so he sent another message. _‘i'm also the most lickable thing since the lollypop.’_   
  
Humour always got him out of serious conversations.   
  
Naturally, Merlin focused more on the first text. _’and modest 2…so what can u give?’_  
  
He stared at the message, jiggling his knee. Arthur didn’t particularly enjoy personal questions. They were the worst and hardly ever ended well, but he went against every shred of common sense and replied, _“just myself. doesnt seem 2 b good enough.’_ That sounded pathetic, even to him, so Arthur added, _’Soph wntd 2 get married, Viv wntd a baby, Ced wntd 2 lock me in a closet 4ever, Caleb wntd me 2 luv him, etc. No1 wntd me.’_ Arthur didn’t feel all that great after hitting the send button, so he turned off his phone and forgot about it for the rest of the day.  
  
Later that night, when he turned it back on, there was a text waiting for him: _‘find some1 who does’_   
  
And sometimes he and Merlin didn’t text at all.   
  
On one of those no-texting days in late September, Arthur had checked his phone more than usual, which left him feeling puzzled until Merlin sent one of his silly _‘chewing gum while peeling onions will keep you from crying’_ texts and all was right again.   
  
The weekends were better for texting, Arthur quickly found out. It wasn’t that either of their schedules had suddenly opened, but it was nothing to whip out his phone and text _‘what r u doing?’_ to Merlin while he was having breakfast with his father and Morgana before his shift, grocery shopping, studying, and having drinks with co-workers after a rough shift.  
  
“Arthur.” He had been so engrossed with trying not to laugh aloud at Merlin’s text about how he’d sucked a sock into his vacuum on accident that he hadn’t heard Ruby, his father’s publicist and assistant, call his name. “Arthur!” she snapped her fingers in his general direction.  
  
He finally looked up, pocketed his phone, and stood to his feet. “Oh, I apologise. I didn’t hear you.”  
  
He and Morgana had taken to calling her ‘Ruthless Ruby’ when they were younger because she was, well, ruthless. And efficient. And scary. Ruby didn’t say or weigh much, but she knew how to take down a grown man with her left hook and crisp words. She was like a female version of Uther, and now that he thought about it, Arthur wasn’t all that surprised that she was to be his father’s final wife. Not that either of them knew this, but still. He liked her. Respected her, even. Which was more than he could say for his current stepmother.  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” she waved him off as she checked her phone, frowning.   
  
“Is Father ready to see me?”  
  
“Yes.” However, before he could walk in, Ruby blocked his way and asked, “Do I need to prepare a statement?”  
  
Arthur blinked. “Beg your pardon?”  
  
“The person you’re texting. You’re smiling. I’ve never seen you smile like that.”  
  
He brushed her off with a hand wave. “I’m just _amused_. It’s just my mate, Merlin.” Wait. Were they mates? They’d only been texting…well, a month. It was the final day of September, after all. Maybe they were mates. “He vacuumed his sock and is cursing every god he can think of while he tries to get it out with a butter knife and the power of his mind, or whatever that means.”  
  
Ruby cracked a rare smile. “Get back to me with that statement.” She sounded too much like Uther when she said, “I don’t want this to be a spectacle.”   
  
“But—“  
  
She was gone before he could say anything further.   
  
Arthur received a new message right then that said, _‘I am the champion!!!!!!!’_  
  
He smiled again before he could stop himself.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
From October through November, their texting went from _‘something to pass the time’_ to _‘something he looked forward to’_. They started sending picture messages of, well, anything the other would find funny. Arthur started scheduling his lunches and breaks to run simultaneously with Merlin’s. And when he had to stay late for an emergency surgery, he would always let Merlin know, so he wouldn’t get worried.   
  
Merlin had started texting, _‘what should I eat?’_ or _‘Superbad or Resident Evil?’_ more frequently. And if there was something good on the telly, Arthur almost always ended up turning his on to figure out just what the hell Merlin was going on about.   
  
When Morgana found out that he was texting Merlin in mid-November, she grinned knowingly before asking, _“Why don’t you just talk to him?”_  
  
Arthur never answered, but he knew that he liked things the way they were.   
  
It was easier to text his thoughts and feelings into 160-character messages than to actually speak them. He didn’t have to have an automatic response or reaction. He could think about what he wanted to say, like he did when Merlin had asked, _‘What’s ur favourite childhood memory?’_   
  
_‘The day my dad flew from India 2 c my footie championship. I was 16.’_  
  
And besides, it was the easiest way to talk during the day.   
  
Without texting, he probably would have never learned that Merlin was a cheap, ex-vegetarian with a passion for finger-painting and photography (if his pictures were anything to go by). And there was no way in hell that Arthur would have ever told Merlin about his allergy to cat saliva, his interest in history, or his secret obsession with Japanese game shows.   
  
He was comfortable with their text messaging arrangement…   
  
So of course it had to change.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
December fifth, Arthur decided, was going down as an epically bad day.   
  
First, his tire had a flat. Second, he was only five minutes early for work, which threw him off his pre-shift ritual of sitting in the doctor’s lounge with a coffee and fruit, and browsing the internet for LolCats. Then, he’d blanked on a diagnosis that he _knew_. And if things couldn’t get worse, Arthur had gotten blamed for a mistake that idiot, Alvarr, had made. And speaking of that jackass, even after Arthur covered for his sorry arse, he decided to renege on their deal for him to cover Arthur’s evening surgery so he could attend dinner at Lance and Gwen’s, which sent his day straight to hell. Luckily, he found a replacement, but not in enough time to get home to change. And just when his day started to brighten, Merlin didn’t text him after his driving test let out. Which did not bother him. Not even a little bit. Nope.   
  
Arthur frowned.  
  
So, now he was standing in front of his friends’ flat in scrubs that had more than a few suspect stains, and was ridiculously hungry. When Gwen opened the door, the worried look on her face immediately told him that he was not going to get the home-cooked meal and three beers she’d promised. Lance behind her was wearing a jacket. They were getting ready to _leave_.   
  
“What happened?”  
  
“Merlin’s been in a car accident.”  
  
“What?! His last text said that he was going in for his practical. How did that thunderhead manage to get into an accident?”  
  
It was a rhetorical question, but Lance shrugged anyway. “That’s all we know. Gwen just got the call from the hospital.”  
  
“Which one?”  
  
“St. Bartholomew’s. The taxi will be here in a few minutes.”  
  
“You don’t need a taxi. I’ll drive. St. Bartholomew’s is about twenty minutes from here.”  
  
Arthur got there in ten.  
  
There were three things that Arthur couldn’t stand—okay, so maybe there were three _thousand_ things, but for the purpose of the story, there were three things that incensed him:   
  
1) Disinterested hospital clerks.   
2) Rude nurses.   
3) Spoilt rich kids who threw a ‘don’t-you-know-who-my-father-is’ fit whenever they didn’t get their way.   
  
When faced with _one_, who gave them the run-around of a lifetime; and _two_, who was just flat out rude, despite Arthur’s charm; it forced _him_ to turn into _three_. Arthur sent his father a text that just said, _‘Do you donate to St. Bartholomew’s?’_ and waited, tapping his foot impatiently.   
  
Across the waiting room, Gwen was talking to the rude nurse, pleading her case in what was her _‘I’m being nice, but I really want to punch you’_ tones. “But I don’t understand. I may not be related to him, but I’m his contact and he’s not seriously injured. Why can’t I go back to at least see him?” Lance was right beside her, looking irritated, but kept a hand on his wife’s back as a gesture of support.   
  
Father’s text came back faster than expected, which meant that Ruthless Ruby was doing the texting. _‘Yes. A million pounds a year for medical research and equipment. Their cancer ward is named after your mother.’_ Huh. He hadn’t known that. Before he could make a mental note to bring this bit up with his father during their Saturday breakfast, Arthur’s Blackberry vibrated again. New message. _‘Why?’_   
  
Ruby/Father’s ‘why’ would have to wait; Arthur had what he needed.   
  
He got up and paced for several seconds, planning out his fit. But when the rude nurse brushed Gwen off, he sprang into action. He walked to Gwen’s side and, in his best _‘I mean business’_ voice, he said, “I need to speak to the Director of Nursing.”  
  
“I’m sorry, but—”   
  
“Clearly,” Arthur spoke over her, his tone was as haughty as he could muster. “You didn’t hear me. I would like to speak to your Director.”  
  
“That’s not possible, sir.” She gave him a challenging look.  
  
Oh, she was going to regret that.  
  
Gwen tugged on his arm as if to say _‘chill out’_, but he was too far into _‘snotty, rich kid’_ land to come out now. “Call me Arthur. Arthur Pendragon.” The nurse’s brow narrowed with faint recognition and he could hear Lance muttering, _‘Oh, bollocks’_ under his breath. He’d seen Arthur pull this stunt enough to know what he was doing. He shot a look at his best friend, who was pulling a confused Gwen out of earshot, and then turned back to the nurse, standing straighter than before. “Some people call me ‘mate’ or, in your case, ‘sir’, but Uther Pendragon, the Speaker of the House of Commons _and_ the man who donates millions to this hospital, he calls me _son_.”  
  
Her face fell. “Oh—oh bollocks!” She covered her eyes with her hands. “Oh, I didn’t mean to say that, Mr Pendragon, I was just doing my job. The police are questioning your friend about what happened and I have orders to not let anyone in who isn’t family and I didn’t know he was friends with Uther Pendragon’s son or that—oh, I’m going to get sacked for this!“ And the look of horror that followed was almost enough to stifle his irritation with having to pull the ‘Uther Pendragon is my father’ card to get some sort of reaction.  
  
Arthur frowned. “You’re not going to get sacked.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I understand that you were doing your job, but Gwen here—” he gestured to his friend who was now sitting in a chair across the room, looking miserable. “She’s the closest thing to family that Merlin has in the country, and we just want you to show her where he is.”  
  
“I’ll—” she looked around wildly, “bring out the Director of Nursing. She’ll be glad to answer your questions.”  
  
“Thank you, very much,” he said stiffly. Arthur took a glance at her nametag before she fully turned to scramble out the waiting room. “Oh, and Victoria?”  
  
The nurse turned around slowly, looking horribly uneasy. “Yes, Mr Pendragon?”  
  
“Someone shouldn’t have to be the son of a benefactor and a Member of Parliament to get a kind word and a little respect out of you.”   
  
Victoria nodded once, and then disappeared through the large white doors.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Gwen was escorted back by the Director of Nursing, who was full of apologies for the hoops they’d been forced to jump through. Apologies Arthur only nodded half-heartedly at. He didn’t lose the posh look until it was just he and Lance in the corner of the waiting area.  
  
“So,” Lance gave him a meaningful look after several long minutes of silence. “Merlin?”   
  
“What about him?”  
  
He just stared at Arthur. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”  
  
“Say what?”  
  
“You fancy him.”  
  
Arthur rolled his eyes, scoffing as if Lance were in dire need of mental help.  
  
“He’s a good bloke, Arthur, and—”  
  
“If the words _‘he might actually be good for you’_ come out you mouth, I’m going to roll up one of these girly magazines and beat you senseless.”  
  
Lance just laughed, Arthur huffed, and they sat in silence until Lance had to open his fat mouth again. “You don’t do all this for someone who doesn’t mean anything to you. I’ve known you since you were the chubby, rich kid who tackled anyone who tried to bully me.”   
  
“I don’t—”   
  
He did not want to discuss this. There were moments—like when he was doing laundry, waiting for Morgana to show up for dinner, contemplating which LolCat to send Merlin, or just staring at his Blackberry—when he thought about who Merlin actually was to him. But then he’d get all confused and nervous and the weird feelings would start. It was a tiny little feeling, uncomfortable and unfamiliar. Like something was stirring, trying sleepily to claw its way out. And it didn’t feel great. So he tried not to think about it. Really. Because that strange feeling needed to stay dormant for as long as possible.   
  
Arthur did what he could do to change the direction of the conversation. “I was not chubby!”  
  
“Sure you weren’t, Arthur. Just like you aren’t trying to change the subject.”  
  
He did a really good impression of a fish, opening and closing his mouth, but unable to speak.  
  
Lance smiled. “You drove us here in record time, waited hours with us even though you have a shift tomorrow afternoon, and you pulled the ‘papa’ card. Either you’re a giant softie—which, if you are, I’ll make fun of you until the _end of time_—or you actually fancy Merlin more than you’d like to admit and you’re too emotionally constipated to let yourself think about it.” When Arthur opened his mouth to argue, Lance leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Let’s argue about your non-feelings for Merlin later, okay? I’m knackered.”  
  
“Fine, but—”  
  
“Beers next week?”  
  
“Sure, and by then, I’ll introduce you to the bloke who’ll be taking over your role as my best friend.”  
  
“Good luck finding someone more awesome than me who’s also willing to deal with you when you’re pissed and ranting about how fuckable you are.”  
  
“That was one time!”  
  
“So! I still remember it, despite my best efforts to forget.” Lance started mocking him, using his best ‘sloshed Arthur’ voice. “’Look at me, I’m Arthur Pendragon! I’m one fine piece of arse and everyone—_everyone_ wants me. I’m like sex on legs. Sex on a stick. Sex in a hammock—‘”  
  
“I hate you so much right now, Lance.”  
  
He just opened his eyes and gave a smile that quickly died when the doors opened and Gwen came out alone, looking extremely relieved. Lance was on his feet faster than Arthur, who didn’t quite understand why he was as jumpy as his best friend. Perplexing. Gwen rushed into her husband’s arms and then gave Arthur a tight hug and smile. “Thank you so much, I—”  
  
“Well, how is he?” he asked in a burst.   
  
“Merlin’s fine. They said that if the fruit cart had hit a metre closer to the door, things would have been much worse.”  
  
“A metre?”  
  
“Yes, Merlin said that it just veered sharply and crashed into the back door, causing the car to spin instead of pinning them both inside.”  
  
“It spun? With Merlin inside?” Arthur’s mind drifted. “I bet he screamed like a _girl_.”  
  
Lance gave a choked laugh. “And flailed.”  
  
Gwen smacked them both in the arm. “He could have been hurt!”  
  
“Now that he isn’t, we can make fun of him. It’s in the laws of…” Arthur gave Lance a pleading look.   
  
“Man law?” he shrugged, which wasn’t at all helpful.  
  
“Exactly!”  
  
She didn’t look convinced. “It’s not like he’s unharmed. He has a nasty gash on his head that they stapled up, bruises from the seatbelt and airbag, and a headache. They’re going to keep him overnight for observation because he has a horrible concussion from hitting his head on the window.” Gwen gave Arthur a small smile. “And he wants to see you.”  
  
Arthur was confused. “Me?”  
  
Gwen nodded. “They’re about to transfer him to the fifth floor, so you’ll have to wait a minute, but he’ll be in 5387. Can we borrow your car? We’re going to Merlin’s flat to get him a few things.”  
  
He handed over his keys. “Sure Gwen.”  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Arthur took a deep breath to calm himself before knocking on 5387 and peeking in. Why he was being such a nervous _girl_ over this, he didn’t know, but it was beneath him. So he pushed opened the door and strolled in like he belonged there. Merlin was in bed with his mobile pressed to his ear, nodding and trying to convince the person on the other line that he was ‘just fine’.  
  
Well, he didn’t look it. Arthur almost felt bad for making fun of him.  
  
Almost.  
  
The first thing he noticed was that Merlin was so pale that the bruises from the accident stood out like a nasty brand on the side of his face. As did the dirt. His hair was a mess and he could see the white dressing on the side of his head. Arthur shut the door behind him with a gentle click, announcing his presence. Merlin looked up and smiled. It made him look like a person who’d had a horrible day, but was happy to be in the presence of someone he cared about.   
  
Which was odd. But Merlin was sort of odd anyway, so he told himself not to think much of it.   
  
Instead, he checked Merlin’s vitals, which were good. Then he looked at the wad of gauze and tape where the IV had once been. It was a little sloppily placed, but nothing major. But the wound on his arm needed redressing. So he found a nurse to do it and by the time she left, Merlin was off the phone.  
  
“Nice scrubs,” Merlin smiled.  
  
“Nice head lac.” Arthur sat down next to him. “And the matching laceration on the arm is so chic."  
  
"I prefer manly. It makes me look tough.”  
  
“Being hit by a runaway fruit cart and spun all over the road isn’t manly. Just so you know.”  
  
Merlin grimaced. “You could’ve lied, you prat. My manhood could have been on the line!”  
  
Arthur laughed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m glad you’re all right and all, but if you tell me that you passed, I’m never driving again.”  
  
His smile widened. “I passed.”  
  
“How?!”   
  
“The accident happened _after_ I passed, thank you. When they pulled my instructor out, they left his clipboard, which had my results on it. I snatched it before they helped me out. It’s currently in my jeans,” Merlin gestured to the bag with his clothes in it. “Okay, so it’s a bit bloody and wrinkled and maybe wet, but the _‘Merlin Emerson passed this shit’_ is very clear.”  
  
It started with a snorting chuckle from Arthur, Merlin followed with a snigger, and pretty soon they were clutching their sides, laughing loudly until they couldn’t breathe. After, Arthur helped Merlin order food and clean the dirt off his face and hands with a warm washcloth.  
  
“It was a pretty close call,” Merlin told Arthur as he cleaned a spot of dirt from his cheek.  
  
“One metre, I heard.”  
  
Merlin looked around before he grabbed Arthur’s hand with his good one. “I did it, you know.”  
  
He blinked. “Yes, I know you crashed. That would be why you’re in a _hospital_. You must have cracked your head harder than they thought.”  
  
“No, you wanker! I meant,” he took a breath. “Will’s the only one who knows, but I can move stuff with the power of my mind. _I_ moved the fruit cart.”  
  
This was the point when Arthur realised that he should have ignored the rantings of his obviously drugged mate, but the future teasing was just too damn good to pass up. “A metre?” He lifted his brow, looking very unconvinced. “You’re a pretty crap telekinetic. You could’ve moved the fruit cart so it _wouldn’t_ hit you.”   
  
Merlin was calling him all sorts of vile, mean names in his head; Arthur just knew it. “Look, if I moved it further, it would have vanished and my secret would have been exposed.”  
  
“Uh-huh…”  
  
“Don’t look at me like I’m crazy.” He frowned. “I should have never told you.”  
  
“So you can move things only a metre…or else they vanish?”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
Arthur busted out laughing, but promptly started choking on it when Merlin’s eyes flashed gold and the cup on his tray table moved…exactly one metre. He picked up the cup to make sure it wasn’t some stupid trick, but it was just a cup. Half-full of water and ice. Arthur dragged his eyes from the cup to Merlin’s eyes, which had returned to their normal blue. Huh. He looked at the cup. Huh.   
  
So maybe he wasn’t so crazy after all.   
  
Bloody weird, but not crazy.   
  
Merlin had a nervous look on his face, like he was expecting Arthur to turn him over to the circus or the police, but what was the fun in that? He supposed that he should have reacted more dramatically. He was completely capable of throwing the right sort of fit to suit the situation, but really, his cousin _predicted weddings_. He could say that he was used to this sort of thing.   
  
An expert of sorts.  
  
“I won’t tell anyone. Besides, you wouldn’t look good in tights.”  
  
He seemed to exhale at that, but Merlin’s face twisted in confusion. “Wait. Tights?”  
  
“Errrr…” Arthur stared at the door, willing someone to walk through it to save him from having to explain. “Bugger. You looked like you thought I was going to send you off to the circus.”  
  
“Will threatened to when he found out, but he thought being in the circus was cool. Still does, actually.” Arthur went to the sink to rinse the towel, returning with a warm cloth to finish what he had started. Merlin was aghast. “How are you cool with this?”  
  
“It’s not my secret to tell, but…oh bugger it. She won’t mind, as long as you don’t tell my father.” He wiped Merlin’s neck. “Morgana’s been predicting weddings since she was five…sometimes years before the bride and groom meet. She makes sure I’m pretty informed, so forgive me if I’m not surprised that someone else has a useless superpower. You two should unionise.”  
  
He kept blinking at Arthur.  
  
“Stop blinking so much, it makes you look addled. You should do more tricks to entertain me.”  
  
Merlin glared hard, but then his eyes flashed gold and Arthur blinked in sheer amazement.   
  


* * *

  
  
  
When Gwen and Lance returned with food for Arthur and necessities for Merlin, they had moved from exhibiting Merlin’s useless superpower to watching Jonathon Ross and arguing about it. Merlin thought he was terrible; Arthur thought Merlin was an idiot. So, it all worked out in the end with them both mocking everything that Johnathon Ross said. Arthur shoved a few stolen crisps into his mouth, while Merlin pretended to care in Gwen’s general direction.   
  
“Oh thank God you’re here! Make him stop stealing my food!”  
  
He nudged him carefully. What? A complaining Merlin was more insufferable than a whinging one. “You don’t even like it. And I’m starved.”  
  
“I lost blood, I need the nutrients.”  
  
“I don’t disagree with that, you waif, but—”  
  
“Boys,” Gwen interrupted, using her authoritative voice.   
  
Lance, behind her, smirked very knowingly at Arthur, who ignored it. He started laughing, which made Arthur frown. Gwen glared at them all. Merlin stuck out his tongue at Arthur and that just made him steal another chip. Just for the hell of it. He smiled and chewed on his stolen good. It wasn’t all that tasty, but Merlin’s glare made up for it.   
  
“Boys!” she waved her free hand. “Stop…whatever it is that you’re doing. I come bearing gifts. For you, Arthur, I bestow Chinese. I couldn’t remember if you liked the General Tso’s Chicken or the Mongolian Beef, so I got them both, and an eggroll. And a cola.” Gwen handed him the plastic bag.  
  
“Thanks Gwen.” He sat it on Merlin’s bed table, pulled out the eggroll, and wolfed it down in two bites, while Merlin stared at him, wide-eyed. “Vous arr afazing,” he said while chewing. Impolite, sure. Father would have his head, but he was amongst friends anyway, so it didn’t matter.  
  
“No problem.” She smiled. “And Merlin,” Gwen pointed to the duffle bag on her shoulder. “I brought you fresh clothes and a toothbrush.”  
  
“Thanks so much, Gwen,” he graciously smiled when she put the bag down on the futon across the room, where Lance had taken a seat. She plopped right on his lap and the two shared a laugh that neither Merlin nor Arthur understood.   
  
Not that it mattered. Arthur was digging so furiously into his General Tso’s Chicken that he didn’t notice he was being stared at until Merlin cleared his throat. Arthur’s eyebrow went up in question, and he received a smile in return.   
  
“Remember Arthur, sharing is caring—so gimme.”  
  
Like hell. “Bah Humbug, you invalid.”  
  
“Brat.”  
  
Arthur ate another forkful of chicken. “Mmmmm.”  
  
“Hmmph,” he glared. “And I changed my text messaging package for this treatment? Woe.”  
  
Merlin changed his texting package for him?   
  
Arthur had to pause in his quest to eat everything in as few bites as possible to beat down that weird, clawing feeling that came out of nowhere. It was pretty annoying. And odd.  
  
“I do a pretty awful impression of Tiny Tim, gimp and all, so you might want to forego the torture and just share.” When Arthur just looked at him, Merlin added. “I’ll even let you sit on my bed.” He patted the spot beside him. “I know you’ve been standing all this time because that chair is too hard for your sensibilities.”  
  
“Wanker,” he muttered because he was right. The chair really was so hard that it could have been made with stone and it would’ve felt better to sit on. “We’re going to revisit that _‘sensibilities’_ insult later. Preferably after we’re both full.”  
  
“Yay!”  
  
Arthur stood up, sighing and rolling his eyes. Merlin shifted as best as he could with a bright smile on his face. Gwen made a weird, high-pitched noise when he gingerly settled beside Merlin and kicked off his shoes, which Merlin demanded. But, somehow they managed to eat in peace, even with the lack of personal space and Gwen’s crazy happy looks.  
  
“Did Arthur tell you about his epic flip out earlier?” Lance asked Merlin, much to Arthur’s horror.  
  
“Err…” Merlin blinked.  
  
“Well the nurse wouldn’t let Gwen in to see you and Arthur just—”  
  
“Aha! Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Arthur cut his best friend off with a laugh that was thinly disguised by a sharp _‘if you speak another word, I’ll gut you with a melon-baller’_ look. The last thing he wanted to do was to explain an action that he couldn’t justify himself. He’d done it for Gwen. Really. But at the same time, he also didn’t like the idea of Merlin being alone in a hospital without knowing that someone he knew was right there. He didn’t like not knowing if Merlin was all right. He didn’t like feeling…  
  
Well, that was just it, wasn’t it?  
  
He didn’t like feeling for Merlin. That didn’t make him comfortable at all. Mainly because it wasn’t the same way he felt for Lance or any of his other friends. Not even that psycho, Morgana. Merlin was his mate, sure, but…oh bollocks, he did _not_ want to think about this.  
  
“Gwen already told me what you did.” Merlin had that soft, gracious look on his face. “Thanks.”   
  
The look made Arthur frown. “I didn’t exactly do it for _you_.” He heard a hand smack against a forehead. Sounded like Lance. Arthur looked. It _was_ Lance. And Gwen was shaking her head. Merlin looked oddly blank. “I mean, we’re mates, sure, but I was ticked. The clerk sent us all over the hospital on some kind of rabid wild goose chase and then that nurse was rude to Gwen.” Why was he rambling and why couldn’t he stop? He squirmed, trying to straighten a bit, but the bed was small and he would be damned if he was going to sit in that stupid chair. “So, I might have strategically planned my attack and texted my father to make sure I had a leg to stand on, but she deserved it.”   
  
Oh God, he was still talking. But Merlin clapped his free hand over his mouth. Arthur muffled out a few curses—not that anyone could hear them—and scowled at the smiling Merlin. “Are you done rambling now?”  
  
Arthur nodded; glaring daggers—no, butcher knives.  
  
“Good.” He moved his hand and picked up the remote. “The football game highlights are on, I’m sure. Want to watch?”  
  
“Uh, sure.”  
  
Arthur would like to point out that he _did not_ plan on falling asleep next to Merlin while watching the recap of the West Brom and Sunderland game.  
  
It just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: moving from LJ. Avoiding the one everyone wants me to bring to AO3. The big one. *cries*


	3. Catching Feelings, Not Flights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Worst best friend ever,” Arthur told him, huffily. “I’m really going to replace you. Interviews start next week, just so you know.”
> 
> He could almost hear Lance’s smirk. “Good luck. I’ll get a hold of the list of candidates and give them a ring to let them know what a giant chickenshit you are.”
> 
> “I hate you both.”

_Three_

Arthur would have loved to say that waking in a hospital bed with his arm thrown over Merlin’s middle hadn’t changed anything, but that would have been a lie; a boldfaced fabrication that he’d tricked himself into believing. Because things did change. Not a lot, but enough for Arthur to notice.   
  
You see, from that day on, things just started to _happen_.   
  
Merlin went from being someone that he texted almost religiously; to someone he spent quite a bit of time with.  
  
And it was everyone else’s fault.   
  
First, it started with Gwen and Lance, who invited them—plus Morgana, Leon, and Owain—to dinner at their flat two days after Merlin was released from the hospital. Dinner was great, Lance was an excellent cook, and Gwen was her hospitable self. Merlin was a little quiet, but smiling enough. Morgana was in such a good mood that she didn’t try to humiliate Arthur, which was a plus. Even Owain was less perverted than usual.   
  
It just so _happened_ that when Merlin wandered outside while everyone decided on what they wanted to do next, Arthur put on his coat, grabbed Merlin’s, and followed.   
  
“You’ll catch your death out here.” Arthur said to Merlin, who was sitting on the front step, as he went to join him. He considered feeling strange about sitting so close to him, but they had already shared a tiny hospital bed. Nothing got weirder than that.  
  
“I lived in Maine. This is nothing.” But he put on the coat anyway. “Have they figured out what they want us to do next?”  
  
“Not yet.” Arthur exhaled, looking over at Merlin. “You’re quiet tonight.”  
  
“Just tired, sore, and hazy from the meds.” He shrugged. “Not really in the mood to go out and—” Merlin made a waving motion with his hand. “Do whatever.”  
  
Arthur thought about it momentarily and reached into his pockets, fingering his car keys. “We could ditch them, go back to your place, and watch one of your nerdy telly shows on DVD.”   
  
“Which one?”  
  
“Whichever one you want.”  
  
“_Battlestar Gallatica_?”  
  
“Only if we can watch _Viking: TUOC_ next time.”  
  
“You and your Japanese gameshows…” Merlin trailed off with a smile. “Deal.”  
  
That DVD night led to another DVD night three weeks later, which led to another and another. By January, they had decided they needed a schedule, which led to text debates and then phone debates because the texts were too long and rapid for either to follow. It took two weeks for them to settle on Mondays, but the phone calls persisted.   
  
The text messaging didn’t suffer, though. Oh no, they still shot messages back and forth when they couldn’t talk. But sometimes, Arthur would call him when he was walking out of the Tube after getting off of a brutal eighteen-hour shift, because he knew he’d be sleeping the rest of the day. And sometimes, at night, Merlin would interrupt his light medical reading to tell him one thing, and they’d end up talking for hours about something completely different. Or watching a show on the telly together. Or making fun of Merlin’s _Dr Who_ ignorance.   
  
“What Merlin?” was Arthur’s customised greeting as he poured over his notes and textbooks to brush up for tomorrow’s mastectomy.   
  
“Are you _still_ studying?”  
  
“I’m brushing up, not studying.”  
  
“Semantics,” Merlin retorted. “Take a break for thirty minutes.”  
  
“Are you deaf?”  
  
“No, stubborn and so bored that I’m watching _Dr Who_. Speaking of, I have a question.”  
  
Arthur exhaled and shut the book. “Ten minutes, starting now.” He put his feet up on his coffee table. “What question did you want to ask?”  
  
“What does TARDIS stand for?”  
  
He slapped his forehead with his hand. “I’m revoking your Brit card, just so you know.”   
  
Merlin continued filtering into other parts of Arthur’s life over the next few months. Like when Arthur had gotten his days mixed in March and accidentally invited Merlin over to watch the first season of _Dr Who_ on the same night he was to host a takeaway party with his closest school friends. Merlin ended up staying, making friends with Freya and Ewan, and sleeping off his hangover in Arthur’s guest room.   
  
After that, whenever someone called to meet up for drinks or a movie or anything, they would ask him to invite Merlin.  
  
They were celebrating Freya’s birthday in early April at an Italian restaurant in Surrey when Merlin, after kissing the birthday girl on the cheek and giving her a gift, plopped into the seat next to his and picked up the wine menu. There were at least thirty people here, most of which Arthur didn’t really know, and Freya was on the other end of the table. Needless to say, he was a little relieved to see Merlin. He was late and wore an awful tie, but Arthur already knew why.   
  
Parent meetings.   
  
Arthur couldn’t understand why a room full of six-year-olds would need parent meetings or why Merlin was always so on edge whenever he left them, but he was in a particularly bad mood that night. He could tell that much when Merlin ordered the cheapest wine on the menu. Wine was the only thing he wasn’t frugal about.  
  
“You’re not going to drink that, are you? It’s horrible.”  
  
“I didn’t have a good meeting. One parent got mad because I recommended for his son stay back a year. He’s emotionally immature and has a learning deficiency. An extra year in my class will do him good, but—”  
  
“Drink this.” Arthur moved his wine glass in front of Merlin. “Try this.”  
  
He took one sip and looked like someone who was being forced to take their medicine. “That’s awful.”  
  
“It’s Fumin Valle d'Aosta Vigne Merletta, you cretin,” he said with a smirk.  
  
“You can call it whatever you want; it’s dry. I hate dry wine.”  
  
“It’s an acquired taste. I used to hate dry wines, but my father insisted that I taste dry wines again and again. Eventually, it grew on me.”  
  
“I think it’d take me years to acquire a taste for that.” Merlin made a face.  
  
“Go on and kill off your taste buds with that rubbish,” Arthur said with a humoured smile. “Besides,” he continued without thinking, nudging Merlin under the table with his knee. “Some things are worth the time.”  
  
Merlin gave him an oddly soft look then smiled. “I suppose I’ll give it another shot.”  
  
Drinking with his friends led to Merlin becoming a new member of the group. So when Arthur’s friends invited him for a weekend group holiday to horseback ride in Northumberland, Merlin went. When Arthur went gorge-walking in Brecon Beacons with Gwen and Lance, Merlin came. And when Merlin went to Maine to spend his spring holiday with his Uncle Gaius, Arthur was invited. He only stayed a week; he couldn’t get the entire time off. But he got to meet Merlin’s eccentric uncle and his best friend, Will. He also experienced the small fishing town where he lived after his mother’s death. It was nicer than Arthur could have ever imagined.  
  
By the time May rolled around, Merlin was his automatic ‘plus one’ whenever Morgana forced him to attend events. Art exhibits, museum openings, theatre performances, symphony orchestra concerts; whatever got them into penguin suits. Merlin hated them almost as much as Arthur, so they almost always ended up ducking out as soon as humanly possible, going to their respective flats to change, and meeting up for beers at the pub halfway between their flats.   
  
And that was when the rumours started.   
  
Or rather, that was when they picked up steam.   
  
The second week of June, Arthur was summoned to Ruby’s office.  
  
He’d been waiting for her for almost ten minutes before the door opened and he heard her heels on the hardwood floor. “Arthur,” she greeted evenly before slapping the morning paper down in front of him. “Look.”  
  
Arthur looked. “There was an earthquake in China?”  
  
“No—I meant, yes, there was. Do you pay attention to the news at all?”  
  
“Not really. I’m too busy, to be honest.”  
  
“Rectify that. I’m sure your mobile sends news alerts. There’s a big world out there. It’s important as Uther’s son that you stay informed. So you don’t walk around with your head in the mud when stories like this—” she opened the paper and pointed to the article on the second page. “Are springing up like weeds.”  
  
Arthur read it.   
  
_New romance for Commons Speaker’s Bisexual Son?_   
  
There was a picture of him talking to Merlin. They looked…comfortable together. Happy, even. The picture was old, taken while they were out drinking with Ewan and a few of Arthur’s school friends in March. But there wasn’t anything romantic about it. “At least we aren’t snogging.”  
  
“That isn’t the point, Arthur.” Ruby sat in her chair. “I’ve worked very hard to keep you out of the press, as per your father’s wishes since your mother succumbed to cancer. It hasn’t been an easy task with your father’s position and aspirations, but it’s one that I’m glad to have done. You’ve grown up so normal and well, but with the global turmoil, they’re looking for anything to make your father look bad. And the only thing he has is you…and some of his conservative viewpoints, but that’s neither here nor there. I’ve been keeping the rumours quiet about you two for months now, and—”  
  
Arthur interrupted. “There’s nothing going on between Merlin and I. We’re just mates. I spend more time with Lance and Owain, and no one thinks we’re all gay for each other.”  
  
“I’m well aware of this, but,” Ruby pointed at the picture again. “You don’t look at Lance or Owain like that.”  
  
He blinked. “I’m not sure I follow.”  
  
Ruby shook her head, smiling at him as if he were an adorable kitten. “Oh God, your father was right—”  
  
“You and Father had a conversation about me?”   
  
Which was weird. He didn’t spend very much time around his father; hadn’t since he was twelve. It wasn’t that their relationship was strained or nonexistent; Uther was just busy. He made time whenever he could, but Arthur spent his teenaged years not seeing his father for weeks at a time. It didn’t mean that Uther didn’t love him; Arthur knew he did, even though he hardly ever said it. The fact that Uther had put his political career on hold for ten years after his mother’s death, just to raise him without the help of nannies, said more than words. Arthur respected and appreciated him for that, even if his father was stern. The respect was deep enough for him to keep the lines of communication open. And when Ruby started putting weekly family meals on his father’s schedules two years ago and threatening decapitation if Arthur—and later Morgana, who was his favourite niece—didn’t show, he didn’t argue. Not even when he was swamped at the hospital.  
  
“We’ve had plenty of conversations about you, Arthur.” Ruby told him. “He seems to think that you have feelings for Merlin, and he wants to meet him as soon as everyone’s schedules permit.”  
  
“Umm…okay?” He glanced down at the picture, but jerked up to meet her gaze. “Why are we discussing this?” Because he’d spent months trying not to discuss this with anyone. Especially Lance, who had teamed up with Gwen and Morgana to try and make him see the light as far as his relationship with Merlin was concerned. It was annoying and he didn’t like the way that the conversations made him feel. He figured it was best if he just ignored it, but no one else would.  
  
Fucking hell.  
  
“Because you _fancy_ him. Romantically. Lance—”  
  
“You had this conversation with Lance?” he exclaimed. Arthur decided that he was going to kill him. He was going to snap his best friend’s neck like a twig and bury him somewhere in the wide, open space of Scotland where they’d never find him.  
  
Oh, and he was going to wear leather pants and dance on his grave.   
  
He’d figure out the rest of the details—like what to do about Gwen—later.  
  
“I called Lance and forced him to tell me everything, so wipe that sour look off your face.”  
  
He did, reluctantly.  
  
“I know this is weird, believe me. This is _not_ in my job description, but I care about you. We’re almost like family.” She gave Arthur a meaningful look, which was sort of weird because this was Ruthless Ruby. She didn’t do meaningful. “I know that you might not notice it because you’re a Pendragon and you’ve inherited your father’s emotional range, but think about it.”  
  
“Ruby.” Arthur complained.  
  
“You talk about him nonstop and when you’re not talking about him, you’re texting or talking to him. You spend a large amount of time around him and there are hundreds of pictures of you two just _looking_ at each other like no one else matters.” Ruby reached over and patted his hand. “I’ve known you all your life, and I’ve never seen you look at _anyone_ the way you look at him.”  
  
Arthur shifted in his seat; uncomfortable and wishing she would abandon the topic. He didn’t fancy _Merlin_. Well, he did. As a mate, of course. Merlin was different and interesting and funny and smart in a completely untraditional and random way. Arthur liked his quirks and his clumsy ways; his useless superpower and the fact that he spent months studying British slang. He even liked his ridiculous appreciation for the absurd. Merlin made everything bearable, even the hideously boring events Morgana dragged them to.   
  
If he looked at Merlin in a way that made everyone question, then he couldn’t help it. Merlin looked funny with his big ears, prominent cheekbones, knobby knees, and wiry frame. But Arthur liked that about him, too. And the way Merlin’s Americanisms made an appearance whenever he ranted excitedly about something. And the way he smiled all crazily. And the way he spoke so freely about everything. Arthur made an effort to do the same because—hell, he didn’t know. He just _did_. Had been doing it since almost the beginning because there was something about Merlin that made him feel like he could. Merlin never pushed, never wanted or expected anything from Arthur. He just—  
  
“Oh shit.”  
  
Ruby looked at him sympathetically. “Do you see now?”  
  
“_Shit,"_ Arthur buried his face in his hands as everything dawned on him. He moaned. “I need a drink.”  
  
Ruby patted his hand again. Maybe she empathised or maybe knew what it felt like to realise that you fancy your mate in a completely romantic way, but she stood up and suggested, “How about Scotch?”  
  


* * *

  
  
When Ruby sent him home via taxi, he didn’t immediately go to Merlin’s and confess his newly-realised feelings and snog him until he forgot who he was—to hell with the consequences. Instead, Arthur threw himself into benefit dinners for his father and work for the next two weeks while he mustered his thoughts.   
  
Merlin, who was in the final week of his school year, kept inviting him places as if nothing had changed, but Arthur declined because…well, everything had. He was too busy, he had an event to attend, he had to have dinner with his father, he was cleaning out his refrigerator (an all day event, really); something to do that kept him away from Merlin while he tried to think his way out of liking Merlin.  
  
The first day was fine.  
  
_‘Im bored, entertain me’_  
  
Arthur deleted the message.  
  
The ninth was long.  
  
_’Y arent u talking 2 me?’_  
  
_I’m busy._ And then Arthur turned off his phone.   
  
By the fourteenth, he was a miserable _girl_.  
  
He rang Gwen for sympathy only to be told, “If you don’t stop sulking and call Merlin, I’m coming round to your flat, and when I get there, I’ll be very cross and severe. Trust me, I _can_ be severe!”  
  
Arthur didn’t believe her for a second. “You’re no help.”  
  
That was when Lance joined the conversation. “You’re not helping things by ignoring him.”  
  
“Worst best friend ever,” Arthur told him, huffily. “I’m really going to replace you. Interviews start next week, just so you know.”  
  
He could almost hear Lance’s smirk. “Good luck. I’ll get a hold of the list of candidates and give them a ring to let them know what a giant _chickenshit_ you are.”  
  
“I hate you both.”  
  
“Seriously Arthur,” Gwen said earnestly. “Call him. He seems all right, but I think he’s confused about what happened and why you’re ignoring him. Just tell him the truth.”  
  
Arthur waited two hours after talking to Lance and Gwen to call Merlin.  
  
“Hello?” Merlin sounded oddly formal and he didn’t like it one bit.  
  
“Are you busy?”  
  
“Not particularly.”  
  
He winced at the clipped tone of Merlin’s voice. “Can I come over? I’ll bring some Chinese takeaway with a side of apologies for being a gigantic prat.”  
  
There was a pause. It was too long for his tastes and it made Arthur a little nervous, but then Merlin said, “Don’t forget the chopsticks,” and he felt ridiculously relieved.  
  
Later, Arthur stood at Merlin’s door, stumbling through an apology (Pendragons didn’t apologise much, if at all). But Merlin just declared that the takeaway was enough of an apology for him and let him in. His flat was an organised mess, as he called it. There were books strategically placed everywhere and God, he’d almost forgotten about Merlin’s ridiculous book tables and ancient sofa that tried to eat him every time he sat on it.  
  
It was just another two things that he liked about Merlin.  
  
“Want to watch Star Wars?” He asked after they settled on the floor in front of the telly with their Chinese food, drinks, and chopsticks. “Or we could watch Torchwood.”  
  
“Either one.”  
  
“You hate Star Wars.”  
  
“But I like—” _you enough to suffer through it_, Arthur finished in his head. “Hans Solo. He’s hot in a bad boy, soon-to-be-a-prisoner kind of way.”   
  
Merlin laughed.   
  
After the movie, Merlin picked up their dishes—because eating straight from takeaway cartons freaked them both out—and disappeared into the kitchen. They’d been sitting close enough to touch for hours and Arthur was really convinced that going to Merlin’s had been an awesomely bad idea. They’d gotten back to how they used to be in almost no time, but he’d spent most of the movie unable to form a cohesive thought because _God_, Merlin was warm and smelled like play-dough and had fingerpaint under his nails and—   
  
Arthur got up to pace, but heard a noise from the kitchen and went to investigate.  
  
He leaned against the doorframe and tried not to smile at the sight of Merlin stacking dishes in the dishwasher, but couldn’t. Because his hands were wet, and from the looks of his shirt, he’d had a battle with the spray attachment on the faucet. And lost. Pretty badly.  
  
Arthur’s choking laugh announced his presence. Merlin turned, frowning. His face was wet. “Kilgharrah is evil.”  
  
“You named your sprayer?”  
  
“Um. Yes?”  
  
Arthur laughed.  
  
He was so…Merlin. Weird and clumsy, funny and gregarious, and kind-of-adorable. And Arthur felt that strange, clawing little feeling around his heart that Merlin seemed to inspire more and more in him everyday. Arthur couldn’t think of something demeaning to say, so he found a dish towel and beaned Merlin in the face with it. He grabbed another towel and started soaking the water off the countertops.   
  
It wasn’t that much of a mess, but Arthur’s head was cloudy with feelings that he wasn’t sure how to express. Things with Sophia—hell, things with every one of his exes—had been different. At least from this. They pursued him, cornered him, and threw themselves at him. It was fine by him, at the time, because he never had real feelings for them. He wasn’t attached and he sure as hell didn’t allow himself to become attached. Especially not to Sophia. Arthur only tolerated her because she wasn’t as nutters as the rest. She wasn’t stalking him _too_ badly and she never broke into his house to watch him sleep ‘because it worked so well for Edward Cullen’. She wasn’t insanely needy or wanted money from him or—   
  
What the hell was _wrong_ with him?   
  
Arthur had always said that only the deepest love could persuade him to marry, but he always dated people that he could never love—much less tolerate for long periods of time. It had to be some kind of failing on his part. Yes, they were batshit crazy, but so was he, in a way.   
  
In a so-scared-of-being-happy-that-he-only-dated-people-who-made-him-miserable way.  
  
So what the fuck was Arthur supposed to do about _him_?   
  
Things were different with Merlin; they always had been. Right from the beginning. For the first time, he actually _wanted_ someone that made him happy, and now, he didn’t know what to do. Merlin wasn’t backing him into the corner of the kitchen and snogging the rationality out of him. He wasn’t dropping lewd suggestions or clamouring to be close to him. No, he was propped across the kitchen on his counter, applying a kitchen towel to the bottom of his wet jeans.   
  
Hell, Arthur didn’t even know if Merlin _liked_ him.  
  
It was frustrating. Everyone was telling Arthur that he fancied Merlin, but no one told him what the fuck to _do_ about it.  
  
Fucking hell.  
  
“There, all dry.”  
  
“Klutz.” He did his best to sound normal, but his voice sounded choked.   
  
Merlin didn’t notice. He threw the dish towel at Arthur, who caught it with ease. “Ass.”  
  
“Oh come on then, let’s start episode five.”  
  
He agreed and hopped off the counter. Only Merlin stumbled on the landing, flailed wildly, and ended up slamming into Arthur, who had no choice but to pull him into some sort of weird hug to keep them both on their feet.  
  
Now they were too close.   
  
Arthur wasn’t impulsive like Morgana or even his father. He was cool and calm—at least on the outside; meltdowns were better on the inside. Not only that, but Arthur spent an exorbitant amount of time calculating each action, which led to planning out any further reactions. But when Merlin’s eyes flickered up to his, Arthur wondered why he wasn’t pushing him away and retreating until he came up with a plan. God, he was so mixed up. Part of him wanted to abandon all logic and press his mouth to Merlin’s. It was overwhelming and scary and if Merlin kept looking at him like that, he would do just that.   
  
But there was a rational part of him that didn’t allow him a moment’s peace. It was small, but it insisted for him to wait. To think. To figure out how Merlin felt about him. That part was working in conjunction with another part of him. The part that thought of the—_gasp_—future and their friendship. No matter what he said aloud, no matter all the jabs they took at each other, Merlin was his friend. He didn’t want to blow that on this—attraction? Feelings?   
  
Whatever this was.   
  
“It’s pretty late,” Arthur murmured, slowly letting his hands fall to his side. “Maybe we should call it a night instead.”  
  
“Yeah,” Merlin cleared his throat and put a bit of distance between them, to Arthur’s relief. “Morgana and Gwen are dragging me to buy some new bookshelves tomorrow.”  
  
Arthur snorted softly. “You need them.”  
  
He gave him a shove. “Whatever.”  
  
“You have a coffee table made of books with a glass sheet over it.”  
  
“It’s creative.”  
  
“Actually, it’s creepy.” Arthur started for the door. Merlin followed. “Get yourself some _real_ furniture.”  
  
“Har, har,” he rolled his eyes. “Pompous ass.”  
  
“You wouldn’t like me any other way.”  
  
Merlin turned suddenly and seemed to consider Arthur’s words. “No,” he finally said, smirking. “I suppose I wouldn’t.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Almost done


	4. The Lucky Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She’s my ex. Sophia. And don’t let the innocent look fool you; she might be a black widow in-training.”
> 
> “Wait, Sophia?” Merlin’s brow rose. “The one who dumped you because you wouldn’t put a ring on it?”
> 
> “Exactly.”

_Four_

The next afternoon, Arthur was just finishing up his shift when his Blackberry started buzzing. He took one look at the caller-ID and slipped into an empty room to answer it. Arthur didn’t bother with pleasantries like ‘hello’ or ‘good day’. They were good again and greetings wouldn’t be appreciated.   
  
“No, I haven’t killed anyone today, Merlin.”  
  
A hearty laugh rang out on the other end. “Good to hear. I bet you all have a ‘Days-since-a-med-student-killed-anyone’ sign in the Doctor’s Lounge. And it’s blank because no one bothered to fill it in because—”  
  
“What do you want?” Arthur interrupted, shaking his head and smirking. “Or did you call just to launch into a passive-aggressive rant about healthcare, when you really want to rant about how horrible of a time you’re having with Malevolent Morgana and her sidekick, Gleeful Gwen.”  
  
“You know me so well.” There was a long-suffering sigh on the other end. “Morgana took one look at my book-table and made me buy a coffee table. That’s made of wood and has four legs. It's going to moonlight as a storage container, but the point is that my individualism has _died_ today. I hope you’re happy.”  
  
Arthur snorted. “An atomic bomb couldn’t destroy your individuality, you drama queen.”  
  
“Whatever.” Merlin must’ve made a face and remember that Arthur couldn’t actually _see_ him because he laughed at himself and said, “Oh.” Merlin was so ridiculous. Arthur smirked. God, he wanted him. “Anyway, I’ve decided that you’re buying me drinks tonight at The Red Lion. A few bands are playing and everyone’s going to be there.”  
  
“How does that even make sense?”  
  
“It doesn’t, I just want free beer.”  
  
“Leech.”  
  
“No, I’m not. I’m buying the crisps.”  
  
“They’re free, Merlin.” Arthur deadpanned.  
  
“Oh…” There was a pause. “Really? Huh.” Another pause. “I was _wondering_ why they just kept coming with them. I thought someone was just extra hungry for some crisps.”  
  
“I can’t believe people let you teach their children, much less pay you to do it.”  
  
“I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent teacher and my class loves me.”  
  
“They’re _six_. They still believe in Santa and eat paste. They’re not a very good judge of character.”  
  
“You don’t know too many children.”  
  
“Whatever.” Arthur looked at his watch. “As much as I would love to sit in this empty room to chat, I have patients to see and paperwork to do if I want to get out of here in enough time to meet you all at the pub. What time?”  
  
“Nine. That’ll give you enough time to run home to change.”  
  
“How thoughtful of you.”  
  
“Always.” And he could literally _hear_ Merlin’s smile. Arthur’s mouth twitched, but he managed to suppress the grin that threatened to spread. “So you’re buying the beer, right?”  
  
“Bye Merlin.” There was a choked noise of protest on the other end, but Arthur hung up before he could get a word in edgewise. He looked at his phone, shook his head, and stuffed it back into his pocket.  
  
Arthur arrived at the pub with Owain and Ewan, and secured the circular table that was being vacated by a large group of friends. Lance and Gwen arrived just after him, Morgana and Freya showed when the first band went on at nine, and Merlin stumbled in when Arthur was ordering a second round. He hugged Gwen and Freya, glared at Morgana, and did some weird fist-bang-explosion with Lance and Owain before sliding into the empty seat next to Arthur.  
  
He leaned over to Merlin and said, “You’re late, so I was forced to drink your beer,” into his ear.  
  
“Bastard.”  
  
When the waitress returned with their second round, Arthur didn’t say anything when Merlin took his mug and declared that it was now part of The Republic of Merlin Emerson before guzzling it down. He just laughed riotously along with everyone else and ordered them both another.   
  
Soon, they were all drinking, bobbing their heads along with the music, and having a good time. Owain spotted a few of birds he thought he could charm into bed and left, Morgana went out to smoke, and Freya left to go enjoy the music closer to the stage—likely to get the attention of the ‘cute drummer’. With them gone, the table was far less cramped. By all logic, when Ewan moved to sprawl in Freya and Morgana’s spots and Arthur moved to fill his, Merlin should have had more than enough room to sit without touching him.   
  
But that hadn’t happened.   
  
_God._   
  
His skinny leg was pressed against Arthur’s so warmly that it was almost intimate, but he was talking to Lance about…about…_something_. He didn’t know exactly what, but Merlin was happy and warm and…he smelled good. Less like fingerpaint and crayons, but more like soap and summer—wait, what? Arthur flinched. He was getting melodramatic again, which was his clue that he needed another beer. And a new best friend. Fucking Lance and his fucking poetry. Now, all he could think about were things that rhymed with summer. Mummer. Drummer. Lumber. Cumber…some.   
  
Merlin needed to move. _Now._   
  
But he could hardly tell him that. Hell, Arthur could hardly think, he was so tense. And more beers were supposed to help relieve the tension, right? Or at least make himself _stop thinking about Merlin’s skin under his denims_. So, he ordered himself a third pint. Ewan saw some people he knew and left while Arthur managed to appear like he was enjoying the band’s set rather than focusing on everything that was Merlin.  
  
It wasn’t easy.  
  
Especially when the band ended their set and Merlin shifted closer when Owain came to brag.  
  
“I found my ride home,” he waggled his eyebrow suggestively. “If you know what I mean. See that sexy blonde over there.” He pointed at a girl across the room that was waving at him. “She wants a ride on the Owain Express!”  
  
Arthur rolled his eyes. He always wondered about the sanity of the women Owain picked up…and his bill of health. But after taking a second look at the girl, he had to ask “How old is she?”  
  
“Nineteen.”  
  
“You pervert.” Lance chided. “You’re twenty-five.”  
  
“She’s of age! That’s all that counts.”  
  
“Did you see some ID?” Merlin asked, looking dubious.  
  
“I don’t need ID. She ordered drinks.”  
  
“Probably with her fake ID.” Arthur snorted. Merlin and Lance laughed, but Owain didn’t look amused. “Do what you want, mate, but—”  
  
Merlin interrupted. “If you get caught on the British version of ‘How to Catch a Predator’, don’t say we didn’t tell you so.”  
  
Owain stood up abrupty. “Piss off. I hope you all have fun wanking by yourself tonight while I’m—”  
  
“Dude,” Merlin grimaced, “if you finish that sentence, I’m going to find a church and pray for amnesia.”  
  
“You’re Agnostic.” Arthur pointed out.  
  
“My point exactly.”  
  
Owain grabbed the beer he’d set down when he arrived, gave them all a middle-fingered salute and walked away. They all were silent for a long minute and then Lance said, “Hope her parents aren’t home.”  
  
They dissolved into laughter.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The second band was ages better than the first; a lot less screaming, but still no decent lyrics. But the lead singer had a strong voice and the band was just great, so he thought, ‘why the hell not?’ and ended up leaving his friends, his beer, and the pressure of Merlin’s leg against his in favour of joining the small crowd of fans who were standing in front of the stage. When he was walking back to the table, Arthur swore that he’d seen a familiar blonde head, but thought it was his imagination.   
  
There were a lot of blondes.  
  
When he arrived back at the table, Merlin was sitting by himself, but he didn’t look too mad about it. “Where is everyone?”  
  
Merlin looked up. “Lance and Gwen decided to call it a night. They’re going to breakfast with her father in the morning. Morgana’s outside giving Leon directions here. Owain left with his teenage dream. I don’t know where Ewan is, but Freya’s making out with the drummer from the first band over there,” he swatted in the general direction. “And I’m right here.”  
  
“I see that, idiot. Scoot over.”   
  
He did, but not very much.  
  
Three beers made that all right, he supposed. Arthur also figured that three beers made the fact that Merlin was pressing the side of his body against him while he talked okay, too. Wait. Merlin was talking?  
  
“…staring at you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“That girl is staring at you.” He pointed straight ahead to the girl—no, _Sophia_—who was, in fact, staring right at him. She was sitting with her friends; some he recognised, others he didn’t. And when they locked eyes, she smiled almost shyly and set her drink down. Heads turned when she got up and strolled purposefully towards them. “And here she comes. She’s cute in a non-threatening sort of way.”  
  
“She’s my ex. Sophia. And don’t let the innocent look fool you; she might be a black widow in-training.”  
  
“Wait, Sophia?” Merlin’s brow rose. “The one who dumped you because you wouldn’t put a ring on it?”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“Oh.” He nudged Arthur. “What does she want?”  
  
“We’re about to find out.”  
  
“Joy.” The sarcasm was practically dripping off that one word.  
  
Arthur was about to crack a smile, but Sophia showed up first. She smiled prettily. “Hello Arthur.”  
  
He inclined his head politely. “Sophia.”  
  
Her gaze quickly shifted to Merlin, who had sat back and folded his arms, looking unimpressed. Sophia swept her hair behind her ear and asked, “And you are?”  
  
“Merlin.” Short and to the point.   
  
“Pleasure to meet you.” Sophia smiled. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to—” She paused and looked back at Arthur. She was doing that flirty, eye-batting thing that irritated him. “Chat with Arthur for a bit.” She put one hand on the table. “Alone.”  
  
He looked at Arthur. “Actually, I was—”  
  
“Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of him.”  
  
“Are you sure? Because I was—”  
  
He cut her off. “Just spit it out, Sophia.”  
  
“Okay.” She took a breath. “I’ve been doing some thinking since August and I think that I’ll take you back.”  
  
Merlin went for his beer and started taking deep gulps. Probably in an attempt to either not say anything or laugh. Arthur wasn’t sure which, and he didn’t have time to figure it out. Only because he was busy blinking at her like she’d just turned into a two-headed ogre and was on the verge of some cardiac episode. “I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“I’ve been thinking—”  
  
“So you said.”  
  
“Perhaps I gave up on us too soon, and maybe it was wrong of me to pressure you into marriage after only a couple of months.” Sophia said sincerely. “I should’ve waited at least six,” and then she sat down across from them, extending her hands as if she wanted Arthur to take them.   
  
Did he move? No. He looked over at Merlin, who had found a really interesting spot on the wall above his head and was now staring it down. Then he took a swig from his own glass because this was just ridiculous. “Is that all you wanted?”  
  
“No. I know how much you love lists so I’ve created a list of reasons why we should be together.” She reached into her shirt and pulled out a slip of paper, unfolding it with pride. “One: We’re both hot. Two: We both come from wealthy families.”   
  
Merlin nudged him with his knee. Arthur looked at him and was greeted by a very clear _‘what is this fuckery?’_ look. He shrugged in response.  
  
“Three: I’ve always wanted to be a doctor’s wife. Four: We look good together.”  
  
“Umm…Sophia?”  
  
“Wait. I’m not done.” She didn’t even look up. “Five: The sex was good. Six: You’re just the right height for me.”  
  
“Sophia.”  
  
“Seven: I don’t get mad when you check other blokes out. It’s hot. Eight: We both have cute arses, but mine’s cuter. Nine—”  
  
“Will you shut up!” Merlin exploded.   
  
Arthur’s eyes widened.   
  
Sophia’s mouth snapped shut before she realised what she was doing, but then she did and she wasn’t happy that Merlin had interrupted her. “Umm…I wasn’t even talking to you Melvin, so you can go away.”  
  
“It’s _Merlin_. Like the—oh fuck it. You wouldn’t know anyway.” He rolled his eyes.   
  
“Arthur,” Sophia demanded. “Tell your friend here to go away. I’m going to be your girlfriend again, so—“  
  
He blanched. “My what? You’ve got to be kidding me. Sophia, you can’t just decide that you want to take someone back, and that be the end of it.”   
  
Right then, he decided that if Merlin feel the same way, he was only going to date people that he fancied. Not people who were convenient or there or interested in him for all the wrong reasons. Wait. He would only date people who cared about him. Not what he could do to and for them, but him. _Arthur._He just couldn’t do this anymore with all these lunatics. He couldn’t deal with their insanity or egos. And he didn’t want to keep avoiding…something real. Like—_oh bollocks_—love. “I’m flattered by your list, but I just don’t feel that way anymore—”   
  
“Of course you do. We had something special, Arthur, and I’m giving you a chance to have it again. You should take it and be happy. With me.”  
  
He figured it wasn’t best to explain normal human social behaviour to her because Sophia was the most self-involved woman he’d ever known.   
  
And he’d had six stepmothers. Oh, and Morgana.  
  
“That’s nice and all,” he told her evenly. “But I don’t want it. You can go back to your friends now.”  
  
“What!” Sophia exclaimed. “No, I’m not leaving until you tell me why not.”  
  
“Look,” Merlin cut in. “He’s told you straight out that he doesn’t want to be with you again. What more does he need to say to get you to leave us alone so we can get back to our drinks and conversation?” And in an unexpected move, Merlin picked up their mugs and motioned for Arthur to let him out. “I’m going to order us more drinks.” The underlined _‘if she’s not gone by the time I get back, I’ll risk exposing my useless superpower and banish her back across the room one metre at a time until I run out of energy’_ was very clear.  
  
Arthur didn’t move.  
  
“Good,” she smiled. “Now Arthur and I can talk about this alone.”  
  
“Okay, that’s it.” Merlin sat the glasses down and set his jaw in determination. Arthur looked at him funny. “I’ve had it with this Malibu Barbie.”   
  
Merlin promptly grabbed him, slipping a hand behind his neck and drew Arthur’s face closer to his. Arthur only saw a faint smirk before Merlin kissed him. At the first touch, Arthur tensed, but it did nothing to dissuade Merlin, who took his time and used Arthur’s technique of caressing Arthur’s mouth with his own until he relaxed.   
  
Then Merlin used his tongue to trace where his lips met.   
  
Well that was new.   
  
Arthur sagged against Merlin as he kissed him, not moving, only breathing, barely feeling the soft invasion of lips and—oh Jesus, God, Buddha, there was _tongue_. Merlin’s wet tongue darting into this mouth felt exactly like he’d imagined it. Okay, he hadn’t really imagined it, but if he had, it would feel just like this. Merlin kissed as if he was never going to get another chance again. He was rough and eager and grabby to the point where it almost _hurt_, but Arthur loved it. Loved that he didn’t have to think or plan or do anything except _feel_. The taste of beer and chips wasn’t all that great, but it mingled in their mouths and all he could hear was blood rushing in his ears.   
  
He felt a lot of bubbling emotions, but mostly it was acceptance with a side of _’God, this is right’_.  
  
Which was also new.   
  
Merlin pulled back, only a fraction. “That drove Sophia away.” He gave a little breathless laugh.  
  
Sophia who? Arthur went right back to Merlin’s mouth, kissing him deeply now, letting his tongue explore freely, getting just what he wanted-but-didn’t-realise-he-wanted for the last ten months. Had it really been that long? What a bloody waste. Arthur ran his free hand down one of Merlin’s arms, ending at the fist that clenched the bottom of his shirt. He pried Merlin’s fingers off and began running his own fingers over the damp palm of his hand until Merlin grabbed his hand and held it.  
  
Arthur had a fleeting thought that he should ring Ruby to prepare a statement, but when Merlin sighed against his lips with contentment, he figured it could wait.  
  
“Well,” an oddly chipper voice broke the snogging spell. “As happy as I am to see this sight, Ruby is going to kill you.”   
  
They jumped apart quickly, but their hands never separated. Arthur glared up at his cousin while Merlin blushed hotly. Morgana really had a knack for ruining all of his good moments with reality.   
  
“I was going to ring her. At some point tonight.”  
  
“Oh, I already did.” She told him airily. “Like I said, she’s going to kill you.”  
  
Arthur cringed.  
  
“Luckily, she prepared the statement after your little meeting in her office a couple of weeks ago.”  
  
Merlin shot him a look, and Arthur returned with an _‘I’ll explain later’_ one of his own.  
  
Morgana sat down, still grinning. It was alarming. “I am amazing.”  
  
“Are you having a moment of self-gratification?” Arthur drawled. “If so, we can go.”  
  
“No, no.” Her smile brightened. “I mean, don’t you see the signs, Arthur? I _predicted_ this.”  
  
“What?” Merlin blinked at her dumbly.   
  
“You and Arthur. I dreamt of your wedding almost a year ago. I hadn’t even _met_ you, Merlin, but when I did, I knew why you’d end up being perfect for Arthur. It took a little more time than I anticipated, but I’m never wrong.” She sounded extremely proud of that. “I’m so excited!” She bounced in her seat. Merlin and Arthur exchanged a _‘holy fuck, she’s a pod-person’_ look before Morgana started again. “Don’t forget, Morgana is an amazing name for your Cambodian adopted baby girl.” And she left. Thank goodness.  
  
The third band started playing their set, which was a welcomed interruption to the silence that had started to get a little awkward after Morgana’s departure. So they enjoyed the music, talking only when they agreed or disagreed about a particular song’s awesomeness. Freya and her drummer, John, returned to the table during the set; as did Ewan. It wasn’t until after the band finished that Arthur realised that while they’d unlocked their fingers when the music started and Arthur needed his to clap, Merlin’s hand was resting comfortably on his thigh. Had been for a while.   
  
Arthur figured right then that if Merlin wasn’t flipping out about Morgana’s declaration, then he probably shouldn’t either. It probably wasn’t the weirdest thing Merlin had heard—he _did_ have metre-ranged telekinesis, after all. And it definitely wasn’t the oddest thing Arthur had heard—his father was supposed to marry _eight times_ like Richard Burton or something.  
  
Now that he was allowing himself to think about Merlin as a part of his future, he realised that he couldn’t do much better—didn’t want to, really. Because maybe Merlin was like Lance in that he was one of the few people who could deal with Arthur’s attitude and sarcasm and penchant for the dramatics…and one of the few people who cared about him and not what he could do for them. It was…  
  
_Normal._ Not weird or creepy or batshit crazy. Just normal.  
  
Arthur definitely could get used to that.  
  
So, when they were leaving the pub, about to go their separate ways, Arthur pulled Merlin aside and asked, “Can we just forget about what Manic Morgana said about us? I’d like to start…errr, _us_ with nothing heavy over our heads.”  
  
“That _was_ a bit creepy.”  
  
He rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling. “Yeah.”  
  
“I suppose I can’t talk. I move things a metre.”  
  
“So bloody useless.” Arthur smiled when Merlin shoved him in the shoulder. He took a step forward, oddly hopeful when he mumbled out, “So can we?”  
  
Merlin beamed. “Deal.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The early July announcement of the Commons Speaker’s bisexual son’s new boyfriend came six days later and was heavily overshadowed by the fallout of Martha Stewart being banned from Britain and the divorce announcement of Uther Pendragon. Arthur had received the call at four in the morning from Uther himself—twenty minutes after he’d collapsed face-first into bed after a long shift—and was forced to try and sound surprised.  
  
“Son,” his father said. “I only kept remarrying because I wanted you to always have a mother.”  
  
Arthur was silent for a minute after that revelation. It was too early—or late, depending on how he felt—to have such a deep conversation. “They all were pretty horrible in their own way,” he admitted truthfully. “Number three tried to send me to boarding school in Nepal.” Arthur glanced at the clock. “I probably would have been fine without a mother, honestly.” He sat up in bed and turned on the light. “You should’ve only married because _you_ wanted to. Would’ve saved you a ton of money and time in the end. Probably would’ve been good for Ruby’s well-being, too.”  
  
Uther was silent for several heartbeats before he asked. “What made you mention Ruby?”  
  
“No reason, but I’m sure she doesn’t keep a bottle of Scotch in her office because she’s an alcoholic.” Arthur rolled on his side. He couldn’t believe that he was having this conversation with his father, of all people. “You should take her out to dinner when all this dies down; show her that you appreciate her. She’s been more of a mother to me than all six of my stepmonsters combined, and she cares about you, too…despite everything.”  
  
Uther was silent. Not for long, but long enough to make him a little nervous. “I’ll take that into consideration.” He said finally, indicating that their brief, touching conversation was over. “I’m sure you remember the drill. Try to behave yourself in public until the next big news story takes the spotlight off of us.”  
  
“Always.”  
  
“And bring Merlin to dinner tonight. I won’t take no for an answer.” He hung up.  
  
For a while, Arthur laid awake, thinking. His father did everything for a reason. And while his political enemies could talk about his fickle personal life all they wanted, they couldn’t say the man wasn’t brilliant. The timing of his divorce announcement was done on purpose. To protect Arthur from the slamming he would have received from the media. He put himself in front of the firing squad so he and Merlin could have a normal adjustment into, well, togetherness.  
  
That realisation made him text Merlin: _‘we’re having dinner w/ my dad 2nite’_ before he flopped back into bed. He attempted to fall asleep for a minute or two before he sent another text: _‘come over. bring clothes 4 dinner. not that stupid striped tie.’_  
  
Half an hour later, he opened the door for Merlin, who looked rumpled and grumpy. He was wearing hideous pyjamas, dirty trainers, and carrying a duffle bag. When Arthur attempted to lean in to greet him properly, Merlin navigated himself under his arm, which was conveniently lingering across the door. He walked over to Arthur’s table and dumped his bag on the floor.   
  
Arthur nudged the door shut with his foot, and locked it. “Might I remind you, Merlin, that normal boyfriends kiss the boyfriend they’re coming to visit.”  
  
“I just saw you two days ago.”  
  
“All the reason to at least pretend that you’re happy to see me.”  
  
“I am happy to see you, just not happy to be awake at this hour.” Merlin yawned and rubbed his face. “Why I put up with you, I’m not sure.”  
  
“It’s because I’m charming and a doctor and I have great hair.”  
  
“And so modest.”  
  
“And daring, too.” He crossed the room and stood right beside Merlin.  
  
He glanced back at Arthur, then down at his bare chest, before deadpanning, "Right. Such a rule breaker, Arthur; I've always thought so."  
  
"It's what made you finally give into the desire you were feeling for me." Arthur replied with a smirk as Merlin turned to face him.  
  
"Oh, that's it. Forget about that mess with Sophia; that wasn’t it at all,” Merlin said sarcastically, looking moments from laughing. It was all Arthur could do not to laugh and ruin the moment. “Remember a few weeks ago when you were driving us to the movie theatre? You didn't even slow down at the yellow light, even though it’s the law…and well, I just kept thinking to myself, 'That Arthur is so rebellious…I bet he doesn't even brake for squirrels.' It was all I could do to keep from jumping your bones."  
  
Arthur grinned. "That would've been a very welcome response to my driving abilities." He wrapped his arms around Merlin’s waist and closed the gap between them, muttering, "Hi."  
  
“You’re missing a shirt.”  
  
“Am I?” he leered.  
  
“I’m…” Merlin trailed off. “Not even going to respond to that creepiness. It’s too damn early.” He poked Arthur in the sternum. “Speaking of too early, can we never do this four A.M. summons again? I like sleep of the uninterrupted variety.”  
  
He snorted in response. “I’ve sat on your bed once and I’m not sure how you manage to sleep on your mattress. The _floor_ might be more comfortable.”   
  
“It’s good for my back, you—”  
  
Arthur kissed him into silence. He meant for it to be light, just to shut him up, but Merlin sort of attacked his mouth with a vengeance. And after that, he was lost to the feel of _Merlin_. His busy hands that were undoing the drawstring of Arthur’s scrubs, his exploring tongue, his heat, his presence—his _everything_. It was almost overwhelming. So he put just a bit of distance between them, just to catch his breath.   
  
“Ass,” Merlin whispered throatily, but went to reach into Arthur’s scrubs anyway.  
  
“Wait, you impatient cretin,” Arthur stopped him, albeit a little reluctantly, grabbing his hands and pulling them out of his scrub pants. They hadn’t gone this far yet. Not because neither of them wanted it—god did he—but because Arthur was insanely insistent on this not being like his other relationships where everything happened too fast and for all the wrong reasons. Merlin disagreed, saying that they’d been waiting ten months, if he really thought about it. And right then, while looking at Merlin through heavily lidded eyes, he thought, _‘to hell with waiting’_ and went for it.  
  
When Arthur kissed him again—deep, wet, hot kisses now—Merlin sagged into him, which was still awkward. The angles were still wrong, but Arthur wasn’t thinking about that when he started planting rows of breathless kisses down to his chin, to his bobbing Adam’s apple, to the side of his neck, which was bent to the side to allow him all the room he needed. At some point, Arthur let go of his hands and allowed them to roam freely.   
  
“Shit,” Merlin whispered hotly as Arthur’s hands crept under his NYU shirt.  
  
“Shut up and lift your arms,” he requested impatiently, beginning to lift the old, worn material. Merlin obeyed, but because he was knobby and Arthur was shorter, it took several tugs and some un-sexy manoeuvring to get Merlin out of it. But they managed. And when Arthur let the shirt drop to the floor, Merlin still bit his lip and groaned when Arthur’s lips fastened to his collar bone. He still shuddered when Arthur ran the tips of his fingers up and down his back before he went for the drawstring of his pyjama pants. He still gasped loudly when Arthur spit into his own hand. And even automatically rolled his hips when Arthur took his cock in hand.  
  
So it was all good.  
  
Merlin was all over him now; rutting against his hand and moaning against his neck, grabbing his hips and sucking his neck so hard Arthur saw spots. He was so hard he thought he might shatter, but then Merlin pulled his lips off his neck, licked his hand twice, and—”Fuck!”  
  
From there, it was all hardness and heat, enough to make Arthur light-headed with want. Their hands and hips moved in a frenzy, but their kisses were languid, all lips and tongue and intensity. It was too much for them both, but Merlin made it evident by ripping his mouth away, burying his head into the crook of Arthur’s neck and coming into his pyjama pants with a series of sharp, breathy gasps that Arthur felt all over. He slowed the frenzied pace of his hands and hips until Merlin recovered, pulled back, and looked at him with glossy, open eyes.   
  
Then Merlin kissed him too quickly and sank to his knees, pulling Arthur’s scrubs down with him.  
  
Merlin ran his palm over the skin of his inner thigh, first lightly, then with increasing pressure, each time moving father up, until he was touching the crease of flesh where his leg met his torso. Arthur stiffened and bit his lip, when he looked down to watch Merlin take him in hand and stroke gently before licking the leaking head of his cock.   
  
Arthur tried to jerk forward, but Merlin had a good grip on his hips.   
  
And he needed it, too, because when Merlin’s mouth engulfed him in one quick motion, Arthur’s knees buckled hard and Merlin’s hand on his hip was the only thing keeping him standing. Merlin sucked cock like he kissed: wild and enthusiastic with no shred of decorum. All Arthur could do was grip his hair, moan like a man possessed, and try not to embarrass himself. He did the first two just fine, but the last—not so much.   
  
When Merlin decided to look at him through hooded eyes—mouth full and stretched—like there was no place else he wanted to be, Arthur found himself flooded with a deluge of emotions that he couldn’t sort through because, at that same moment, his orgasm hit like a club to the head. He heard himself moaning Merlin’s name over and over until his climax waned, the erection faded, and Merlin let him slip slowly, almost reluctantly, from his mouth.  
  
In one fluid motion, Arthur dropped to his knees, grabbed his face, and brought their lips together. They snogged like their lives depended on it until Merlin huskily declared, “We stink.”  
  
Arthur groaned. “Way to break the spell, idiot.”  
  
“You’re not the one with cum in your pyjamas.”  
  
“Can we revisit this topic in ten minutes?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
So, they showered, separately, because Arthur had to take a call from Morgana and lie through his teeth about everything being fine. Apparently, he sounded different. Chipper. When Merlin walked out the bathroom with a towel slung around his waist, he made quick excuses and when they didn’t work, he hung up on her. He’d suffer the consequences later. Arthur’s Cambridge sweats were loose on Merlin’s skinny hips, but they fit. Enough.   
  
When Arthur went into the bathroom to shower, Merlin was lounging on his bed, dozing. So it was no real surprise to walk back out of the bathroom, fresh from a shower, to find him asleep. Arthur shook his head, threw on some lounge pants, and climbed into bed with him. Merlin stretched and decided to use Arthur’s outstretched arm as a pillow before falling back asleep.  
  
Arthur tried to fall asleep with him, but he didn’t want to.   
  
Just another minute more to relish in the normality.   
  
The minute turned into two hours as Arthur laid there with a sleeping Merlin. In that time, the sky changed, the sun started to rise and leak light into his room, and Arthur’s phone started to buzz with an incoming call. But he didn’t move. He’d never slept in the same bed as another person—well, there was that one time with Merlin after the reception, but they both were completely wasted. And there was another time with Lance, but it didn’t count because they were eight and Lance kept kicking him. It wasn’t until now that he realised why he hadn’t. It was intimate and _easy_.   
  
Easy to allow himself to relax and feel the comfort in Merlin’s presence and the arm that was slung over him. He liked it; thought about telling himself not to get used to it before he realised that maybe he could. After all, they were going to get married…in the future. Distant future.   
  
Arthur stared at his ceiling.  
  
Marriage was still the scariest word in the world, but as he laid there and thought about it, he gained a little perspective on it.   
  
He never thought of himself as a person who believed in fate or destiny, but there had to be some reason why certain people came into his life. Why Merlin saw him rolling his eyes at Lance’s poetry. Why Arthur sent him that very first text message.   
  
Why Merlin replied.  
  
Merlin once told him that in ancient times, people believed the stars that were clustered together were the souls of the lucky people who found their soul mate while on Earth. He said that the other stars emblazoned the sky for everyone who still searched for their ‘other half’. Arthur wasn’t sure if he believed that rubbish, but it was an interesting idea to ponder now, when he was trying very hard not to feel ridiculously content with Merlin asleep beside him. Sure his arm was numb from being straight for so long, but secretly, he didn’t care. There was warm breath tickling the side of his neck and a steady heartbeat thumping softly under his other hand and…   
  
Would they be stars?   
  
That was a nicer thought than accepting that he was having a sappy moment over Merlin.   
  
Merlin, who was stubborn and frugal and odd and fierce when he wanted to be. Merlin, who smiled too wide, wore mismatched socks, and called everyone ‘dude’ when he had too many beers. Merlin, who was ridiculous and clumsily charming and gave head like a fucking genius and…   
  
And kind of perfect. For him.   
  
Not anyone else. Just him.  
  
“Lerrrfulk,” Merlin suddenly curled against Arthur like a giant cat, forcing them to do some wild adjustments to get comfortable again. He finally bent his arm, groaning quietly in pain. “You okay?” Merlin mumbled, looking at him through one half-open eye. “Arthur?”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
Merlin snorted in disbelief and moved again, which caused them to go through another epic rearrangement. Arthur ended up flat on his back, while Merlin propped himself up on his elbow. “Lies, Pinocchio.” He flicked Arthur’s nose, which made him snarl in annoyance. He shoved Merlin in the chest and he just laughed. “I can almost hear you think.”  
  
“Pinocchio, really?” Arthur arched a brow then rolled his eyes when Merlin made a face. “It’s really nothing, you overgrown man-child.” The quip earned him a smirk, which, for the millionth time, invoked that weird, uncontrollable, agonising clawing feeling that…  
  
That was starting to feel a bit like love.  
  
When Merlin smiled and leaned in to kiss him, Arthur drew him closer and silently concluded that one day, in the future, Morgana was going to be completely _insufferable_ at their wedding. And maybe that wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, after all.   
  
  


_The End_

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don’t own any of the Merlin characters. Or the show. Or anything. But that’s okay. I’m content with just playing in their sandbox.  
A/N: I literally forgot I wrote a whole slash fic eons ago for a challenge. Have mercy. Transferring from LJ. Pretty sure there are some mistakes, but yolo.


End file.
